#shriveling up in self pity /j

[quarzy]

wah this took so long to set up

but hii !! i have comms open :3 nervous because im still starting out but any support would be heavily appreciated 💜

[weeklyfangirl]

Frat Boy Pt. 22

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7 (1), part 7 (2), part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11, part 12, part 13 , part 14, part 15, part 16, part 17, part 18, part 19 , part 20, part 21

Hope everyone is keeping themselves mentally/physically well... here’s the next update in your adventure. Please safely read from home ;) 

The sun moved slowly up my window, illuminating the dancing dust in the air. Even though I knew dust didn’t have feelings, it all still looked very peaceful, suspended there in space. 

 I wanted to be suspended, floating, with no obligations or pressures. 

 Instead, I watched time slip by, slowly, as the shadows stretched along my floor and I lay still, wrapped in a giant Winnie-the-Pooh sheets burrito. 

I called in sick the past three days to work and to all my classes, my lack of attendance probably dropping me a letter grade in a few classes. Instead of checking on my academic scholarship, I begged Renny to drop off Dr. Rhinecuff’s papers for me. She did, lamenting about how his office smelled like roast beef and how she probably needed a nose job from it shrivelling up from the stench. Tired, I sent her three hearts, ignoring all of her calls and voicemails. 

 In a random bout of restless energy, I looked up the University of Oxford in England. No one would know me there. And maybe that wasn’t a bad thing when you didn’t even know yourself. I stayed on their site for an hour, avoiding my take-home assignments, and speculating which classes I could take in the spring semester. My eyes grew tired though, and even if I were accepted as a transfer student, it wasn’t like I could ever afford it without scholarships. 

 I closed the computer. 

 It’d been cloudy, rainy. The random storm that’d come in from Mexico lasted longer than the usual morning fog that’d roll in and out by the time it was 9 AM. This storm lingered, heavy, full clouds looking to burst and unleash a steady rain for three to four hours before the clouds rested, storing up all they could until the next downpour. 

 My parents didn’t question me when I came in, used to my random visits. But when I went straight to my room without saying hello, rain-plastered hair covering puffy eyes, my mom basically collapsed at the sight. 

 She followed me to the bed, trying to see my face, but I buried it in the pillow, ignoring the way the purple fringe tickled my nose. 

 “What’s wrong sweetheart?” 

 I just groaned. Her voice was too gentle, too well-intending for the dark thoughts sitting in my mind. She’d be heartbroken if she heard them. 

 She huffed, not out of annoyance, but distress. “What’s bothering you?? Is it Renny? Did you breakup with Harry?” All those reasons were too simple. She ran her hands lightly along my legs, but I cringed away from her touch. It was something I rarely did. She paused. “You can tell me anything...” 

 I shook my head against the pillow, my last attempt to tell her to leave without speaking. She waited a moment longer. 

 “Okay,” she said. And that was it. 

 Father didn’t ask questions, not even when I was here for the third consecutive day. Mom had probably come to her own conclusions, and shared them with him. 

 “Mom said you aren’t feeling too well,” he said over cereal one morning, confirming my suspicions. It was the first time he’d broken our three-day spree of comfortable silence. 

 “What else did she tell you?” 

 He shrugged his shoulders, his usual buoyant self replaced with a quiet voice. He looked at me, and all I saw was pity. If I were him, I’d probably look at me the same way. I hadn’t showered in a while. “Well don’t let anything get you down. You’re too smart for that.”

 He’d tried. He’d put in an effort. I just nodded, scooping up another spoonful of cereal. He followed suit. 

 And that was that.  

 A week passed like this. 

 But overnight, the clouds had blown away, and the sun came back full-force this morning just in time for the weekend, renewing my guilt. That traitor. 

 I’d cried all of Monday and Tuesday, but when the last tear was shed in the middle of a New Girl episode, I was empty. My tears didn’t leave anything to replace them with. 

 On Wednesday, a phone alarm reminded me I had a therapy appointment. I hit snooze multiple times. It was only when I got up to pee, and I hated what I saw in the mirror that I threw on an oversized sweater to go over my pajamas and headed out the door. 

 “Is it good?” I asked. 

 Her hands reviewed my wants list.  

 “That’s just a coffee stain on the corner..just...ignore that bit,” I added. 

 She surveyed it briefly, not really focusing on it. “Were you honest?”

 I nodded.

 “Then there isn’t good or bad. It’s just your truth.”

 “But I still feel… I don’t know. I don’t think I know what that is. I don’t feel like I’m… progressing. Doing anything towards that,” I said. 

 She looked at me with a level gaze. “Then that’s your truth. And that’s okay for right now.”

 I shot her a glance.

 “I see a common struggle with people your age. They feel this….” -She adjusted, quirking her head- “immense pressure to be perfect, to figure it all out, to achieve success so early.” 

 “Everyone’s doing it,” I began. “They’re getting internships, keeping up their grades, involved in ten clubs, doing community service…” I could’ve droned on, but didn’t. 

 “You have an internship, your grades are good, you’ve joined a sorority, and up until recently you’ve been involved in tutoring. Those are extracurriculars.” 

 I couldn’t argue with her. 

 “Is it too much?” she asked.

 Too much. It was everything I’d been feeling until I’d felt nothing. But hearing her list off what was waiting for me just beyond her doors made me feel the weight of it all over again. 

 “I’ve just been overwhelmed.” 

 “Who have you been thinking about?” 

 She noticed I started picking my hangnail. 

 She started gently, knowingly. “Has it been Harry?” 

 “Ow,” I cursed. A bit of blood prickled up where the hangnail used to be. 

 “He seems to be a major stressor in your life. Would you agree?” The clock ticked behind her, filling the silence. Her hands rested in her lap, while mine swiped away the bit of blood. I could never remember my therapist’s name, but somehow it wasn’t important. 

 “Yeah, but … I mean …. there’s a lot of stressors.”

 “Like his friends?”

 His friends, in the abbreviated story I’d told her, stood in place for the gang. I’d used terms like … intimidating, mean, basically painting them as bullies who didn’t like us together. I wasn’t expecting to get much therapy from a lie. “Out of curiosity, if I were to tell you something… would you be obligated to report it to the police?” 

 “Not necessarily.” Her legs crossed, creased brows zeroing in with a laser focus. “Has something happened to you, Y/N?”

 I swallowed hard, the truth lodged in my throat. But I had gotten too used to the weight of the secret. “I was just curious…” My mind raced to change the subject, and I blurted about Zayn’s art show. 

 “Do you think this panic attack was induced by this heightened sense of scrutiny from Harry’s friends?” 

 “Probably.” 

 “You said there were others. What are your main stressors?’ 

 I settled in, more comfortable with this question. “There’s financial stressors, for one. And it’s exasperated here.” 

 “You’ve been dealing with financial difficulties for a while, now. Have you been feeling this anxious the entire time, or has it been recent?” 

 My foot tapped impatiently. We both knew the answer.

 “Your panic attack was a first,” she explained, gently. “Some new factor in your life pushed you there.” 

 I picked at the hangnail, wincing. It was gone. My skin was raw. 

 “Maybe it all links back to Harry.” She waited a moment to see if I’d speak. When I didn’t, she leant back, and pulled out a new sheet of paper, scribbling something down. “I want you to write a pros and cons list about your relationship with him, for next time. When your feelings are overwhelming, it helps to get everything on paper. In a list. Puts things in perspective.” 

 I drove home, her words had pushed themselves into my empty shell and now they clinked around, jostling up my insides like a pinball machine and giving me a headache. 

 Just because I hadn’t left the house all week didn’t mean I didn’t feel guilty for ditching work. God, I did. It killed me. I knew I was lucky to get that internship. Harry had mentioned how people killed just to get on the waitlist, and I didn’t doubt it. An OC internship with, if not the top, at least the most publicized private practice? I mean, I was typing in appointments next to a Southern Stanford grad if that speaks to the competition here. 

 And here I was, retreating back to my house, too drained to face the world. 

 As for Harry, after what I’d said to him, I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t want to talk to me ever again. 

 I’d been so cruel. 

 I was weak.  

 I felt guilty for feeling this way at all. 

 And then I would watch the dust again.

 It was a cycle. 

 About three blocks from my house on my way back from the therapist session, a familiar car passed me. It happened suddenly, unexpectedly, like most things do. We made eye contact before he passed, and my foot instantly lifted off the gas when my eyes connected with my brain. I whipped my head around but the matte black maserati sped up, disappearing from sight. 

 What was Harry doing this far from campus? 

 My heart beat erratically as I pulled into the driveway, and it was only seconds before I made it into the house. Father held up a hand in Grandpa’s old room. Phone call. Trudging silently to my own, I wrapped myself in a blanket burrito. 

 I’d been avoiding my phone, but I caved this time, checking J’s social media to see if he’d posted anything about being in the area to prove I WASN’T crazy and DIDN’T just hallucinate. Nothing. I tossed my phone on the other side of the room before I spiralled.  

 It didn’t matter. I was in my room. Alone. Safe. I focused on the dust. 

 Two little knocks disrupted my exciting mind game - which dust particle would fall further than the other. 

 “You’re turning ripe,” Father noted. His briefcase was still in his hand and he was coming startlingly close to my depression burrito. 

 “What are you doing-!?” I protested. But it was too late. He ripped the sheets off, exposing me in the t-shirt I’d been in since Monday. “Your mood won’t change if you don’t make an effort.

Come on.”

 “Where are we going?”

 “You’re coming to the water with me.” He hesitated at the door. “Shower first.” 

 In the car, a sense of comfort washed over me. He’d been right. Clean wet hair smelled nice and felt good slicked around my head. Even if Mom would complain I’d “catch cold,” it felt good to feel something. Dad’s speakers switched between classic rock and reggaeton as I sipped on the chocolate shake we picked up from the Shake Shack. It was a short drive away to the harbor, and once parked, a shorter walk to the public docks. 

 Our feet dangled above the water. It was too cold to go swimming this time of year, but my body buzzed with yearning despite the goosebumps on my skin. I wanted to feel encompassed by salty water. I wanted to be submerged, where everything was muted, a barrier between me and the world. Between my wet hair and the icy shake, I could pretend my body was as cool as the water below me. I could just…. dissolve. 

 “So what’s going on?” he opened up the conversation. “You having a hard time at school?” 

 “I don’t like the sorority.” 

 His brows raised, not expecting me to be so honest so soon. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, don’t you hate that shit?” 

 I looked at him, almost shocked he’d agreed with me. 

 The boats squeaked as they rocked with the rolling tides coming in from the ocean. I watched as a duffy boat wandered to the end of the jetty - where the harbor opened to the ocean. I took another big gulp of my shake, feeling the cold run down, freezing my esophagus. 

 “I liked frats, but sororities are different,” he mumbled, spooning his shake into his mouth. He’d gotten his usual Neapolitan, and it’d somehow stayed solid on the drive over. We hadn’t been to the Shake Shack in years, but I guess seeing his daughter waste away beneath her comforter was enough to break the dry spell. 

 “Why? Because its girls?” My lips were breaking into a smile without my consent. He didn’t make sense. 

 “They’re more catty.” He shrugged his shoulders. 

 “Dad! That’s verging on sexist.” 

 “Eh, I don’t know. I’m just saying things. Did you tell Mom you want to quit?” 

 I shook my head. 

 “Yeah…” he looked out at the boats, a quiet understanding passing between us. “She was really excited for you to join.” 

 “It’s not all bad…” 

 “Well if it’s not making you happy, don’t do it. Your mom doesn’t want you doing anything you don’t want to do. I was in a frat to shoot the shit with friends and it was something fun to do instead of study. If it’s not something fun for you, drop it.” 

 I could hear the words he was telling me, but it was like they were rolling off my shoulders, not really penetrating. He made it sound so easy, but it seemed like it was a million times harder than that. Everything was entangled, just as Harry had said. Not to mention Renny. If I quit, I felt like I’d lose her forever, too. I knew I could use a better friend, but that couldn’t erase the years of memories we had together. Losing Renny would feel like losing a part of myself. Not that I knew who that was anymore. 

 “Dad?” I asked. The question that'd weighed on my mind ever since I got home rested on the tip of my tongue. 

 “Yeah?” 

 “This is going to sound weird, but did you see Harry today?” 

 “Yeah. He stopped by,” he said, casually, spooning another mouthful. 

 I practically choked. “What? Why?! Weren’t you going to tell me?” 

 “Y/N, I’m working. I have a thousand things bouncing around in my head all the time.”

 “And?!!?”

 Harry couldn’t reach out to me beforehand? He drove by but- what? Didn’t even want to see me? 

 He sighed, not understanding the urgency. “He just stopped by, said hi. That’s all.” 

 My brows stitched. “Why would he say hi to you? What’d he say, exactly?” 

 “Oh, come on, I don’t know. I can’t remember-”

 “Dad!” 

 “All right, all right. Hi, how are you…” -his brain tried to remember- “he asked if you were doing okay. Then he left. He was nearby for a family brunch or something.” 

 “He asked about me?” 

 “Yeah. I mean, he didn’t go on and on, he just asked a question. He was in a rush.” 

 The shake froze me from the inside, and the breeze froze me from the out. But while I shriveled into myself, my guilt grew. “Dad?” 

 He hummed. 

 “Why are people so fake?” 

 He looked out at the harbor, peaceful for a winter’s morning. Only one small fishing boat headed towards the harbor’s edge, the sole fisherman at the helm facing the wind with the grace of a husband dealing with a temperamental spouse. 

 Father looked to our shoes as a random swell came, the water rising perilously close to our soles. Then, with all the untapped wisdom I seldom remembered parents had, “People are fake because they don’t know who they are,” he said.

 He got a call from the restaurant and drove us home. 

 In bed the next day, I ignored the pros/cons assignment, watching New Girl and making collages of Oxford in a word document until my eyes were burning from blue light exposure. I knew I was pushing it staying this long away from school, away from my problems. I was pushing myself, seeing how far my apathy could go. I woke up Thursday night at 2 AM from the rain pouring against my shutter and anger pricking my insides. 

 Harry was the reason I was in this position. As well as Viv, who fucked Harry. And Kiki, who gave me a DG Pretty Please, that just so happened to involve Harry. 

 I wanted him, but I wanted him to fuck off. Nothing was changing. Nothing was getting better. 

 It was all Harry, Harry, Harry, and no matter what, I ended up feeling insane.  

 At one point, I was going to have to choose myself. 

 I rolled over, blindly reaching for a pen, and scribbled in the dark. 

 If my therapist wanted a list, she’d get one helluva list. 

 -----------

“I’m glad you’re going, honey.” Mom released me from the lung-crushing hug. 

 I’d created enough Oxford collages and daydreamed about a new life until I couldn’t think of any other imaginary scenarios (or postpone collegiate life any longer). 

 The Friday sun had set. The game had already started. I thought about the crowd, all the people I’d see… 

 “Can I just stay the weekend?” 

 “Oh.” Her arms dropped from my sides. “Didn’t you promise your friends that you’d go?” 

 Renny. I’d promised Renny. Singular friend. My hand was in a fist, thumb rubbing anxiously over my fingers. I didn’t listen to her voicemails, there were seven of them. But she’d texted me fifty times in the past twenty minutes, declaring that she’d Venmo me gas money if I’d come to the game. 

 I’d been in my hole long enough. 

 “Yeah, I did.”

 “Well, you COULD stay-”

 I broke away, shaking my head. If I let her coddle me another minute, I think I’d crumble all over again. 

 “I love you,” she reminded me. “You’re my precious angel.” 

 From the living room, the muffled applause from the game show Father had fallen asleep to faded further as I left. 

 Momma’s robe-bundled frame waved on the driveway, her sad smile burning in my mind long after she disappeared from view.

 ------------------------------------------------------------------

 Come on, come on, come ON. 

 The path to the stadium took forever. No shame, I was full-on running, braless, fresh pit-stains on display as I booked it to the gate. 

 It was completely dark now, and the usual fleet of cop cars seemed to have all but disappeared the week I’d been gone. Only one passed me by, and the rest of the student body probably all congregated around the stadium. 

 When I saw the art studio, I slowed. It was completely dark, except for one entry light. The paintings would still be displayed... My pounding heart told me to keep running, and I hesitated, listening to it for a moment before walking to the door. I tugged on its metal handles, parts of me seizing up as it opened, giving way to my touch. 

 I crept into the space, feeling like an intruder as I walked through the exhibit. 

 For some reason, I expected it to look differently, to see it blurred together as I’d seen it before in a panic. 

 I was still hanging amidst the vines, but this time the paintings looked less threatening. Maybe it was the fact that I was alone, maybe it was because I’d already felt the worst of it. 

 Each piece was sold. 

 I looked over my shoulder a couple times before letting out a small shout. A tester. 

 It echoed in the space. 

 I did it again, louder, at my full about-to-be-murdered capacity.

 I must’ve looked absolutely mental, but as I heard my shout reverberate around me, at least I felt something.  

 Five charcoal sketches in particular ran horizontally together. 

 Lust / Longing / Love / Lost / Loss

 Had he seen all of this in me? He’d certainly seen other bits I hadn’t shown him. 

 My phone buzzed, and I pulled it out. Renny. Without thought, I started her stream of voicemails.

 Y/N where the FUCK are you!? Zayn’s concerned and I’m concerned and you’re not in the room-

 Next. 

 Are you really sick? Or is this just some BS excuse. Or is this real and Harry gave you tonsilitis or something. I want to hear your voice. Ilyyyyy. 

 Next. 

 It’s meeeeee. Niall’s busy and you’re sick and I don’t know what to dooooo. Housewives isn’t as fun without-

 Next.

 BABE WHY AREN’T YOU ANSWERING ME CALLS DO YOU HATE ME, AND YES I MEANT TO SAY ME INSTEAD OF MY I HOPE YOU’RE LAUGHING-

 Next.

 DUDE. You will not believe what just happened- Harry just stopped by. 

 My thumb paused, letting it stay. 

 I was avoiding his texts because I think he’s a dick. Well, he IS a dick, even if Niall said he was going through a lot. It’s still not an excuse. But Harry LEGIT found me on campus, like not even when I was with Niall at the house, but at our APARTMENT...I-hold on. Ew, pastrami professor just passed me. What are the odds? OKAY BUT SERIOUSLY, I almost punched him when I opened the door because remember last time he basically told me off. But… I don’t know. It was different this time. He seemed… so concerned. Frazzled. I don’t even know the word to describe it. Ugh, if you were here you would be able to TELL ME what the word is. I miss you. Come back. 

 The voicemail rolled into the next. 

 I’m just pretending to talk on the phone right now because the boy I hooked up with last year is staring me THE FUCK down right now-

 A creak in the pipes startled me, and the voicemail was all but forgotten. 

 My heart beat fast. 

 It was very, very quiet. 

 With one noise in the dark, the art pieces turned menacing. An oil painting in the corner of the room morphed into the Styles’ portrait. It wasn’t here. It couldn’t be here. I squinted, blinking through the dark. The portrait I thought I’d seen was just a painting of two silhouetted men facing each other. My heart still beat like I’d just ran a marathon though. I wasn’t about to be a part of the next horror movie “art comes alive.” 

 I booked it out faster than I came, answering Renny’s call on the way. 

 ---------

“Thank fucking finally,” Renny huffed, leaning over Lynn to draw me in a hug.

 “You didn’t miss much,” Lynn said, looking past me towards the game. I sat on Renny’s other side so she was in the middle, but when I looked at the scoreboard - Home, zero. Guest, two - I knew it was a done deal. Some people had already left, but half the stadium was still here, either hoping for a miraculous recovery or refusing to put their tails between their legs for pride’s sake. I noticed a group of parents in Chapman gear huddled together, waving their flags. No Mary or Lionel Styles in sight. 

 “How’s he been?” I asked. It’s like my head already knew where to turn, because as soon as I looked to the field, I found him. On the bench, elbows on his knees, head bent over.  

 “How’ve YOU been?” Renny asked. “I was seriously about to drive over to your house and check on you.” 

 Someone beat you to it. The thought was sour. For as much as Renny could claim her undying love for me, I was struggling to see the actions to support it. Everyone was disappointing. 

 “He’s been playing like shit,” Lynn answered.  

 “Brought back some...” His sentence died. Of all people, Zayn stood there, stopped, popcorn in hand. “Hey, Y/N.” 

 Felix stood behind Zayn, giving me a small wave. Zayn was clearly waiting for me to make the first move, but I turned away to the field. I didn’t know what to say. 

 From my peripheral, I saw them sit down by Lynn. 

 As soon as he did, it hit me like a flashfood. I knew what I was feeling. Anger. Discomfort. Shame. That he could expose me so easily, that he’d looked through my clothes in a way I never permitted. That he could sit down so comfortably without apologizing, as if nothing had happened. 

 Renny leaned in. “Are you okay?” 

 “No.”

 She flinched at the abrupt answer. “Do you want to leave?” 

 I stopped myself from saying yes. I didn’t want to have to climb over Zayn to get out of here. That would be more than uncomfortable. 

 “No, I’ll tell you later.” 

 I didn’t speak the rest of the game, pretending not to hear him cheer or laugh or make a snide remark to Felix every other second. Like the annoying click of a fan when you’re trying to fall asleep, Zayn’s every move made anger shake my bones. Lynn gave me sympathy looks every once in a while. It wasn’t like me to be this quiet, and even with our friendship being as new as it was, she knew that much. 

 The crowd didn’t roar this time. They were silent as the clock hit zero, staring blatantly at its twin beneath Home. The Guest team’s few Minnesota supporters jumped like little beans on the other side of the field, but their cries were faint. 

 We’d lost. 

 Everyone stood, and Renny linked her arm with mine. A familiar habit. “We’re going to Viv’s for some post-game depression drinks now.” 

 But I stopped her. 

 “I think I want to go back to the room,” I winced. 

 “Come on, PLEASE? It’ll be fun, you were barely here for the game.” 

 “I don’t know, depression and Viv in the same sentence… You really know how to sell a party.” 

 “Aren’t you coming, Y/N?” Lynn made moves to follow the rest of the crowd that was funneling out of the stands.  

 I shook my head at the same time Renny nodded hers. 

 She huffed. “Why not? It’s going to be chill. We lost. It’s not going to be like the usual ragers.” She popped her hip, completely deadpanned. “You haven’t seen another college-aged person in a week.” 

 “Yeah and there’s a reason for that.” 

 Concern washed over her, voice lowering. “Tell me.” 

 As if on cue, Zayn and Felix stopped their descent down the bleachers and looked up at the girls, waiting for them to join. It was all I could do to not scream at them. 

 “Later,” I said. “You’re leaving now.” 

 “I don’t have to leave right now, it’s not starting yet...” Renny began, but Lynn gave her a look that said yes, they were leaving now. 

 “She wants us to help set-up,” Lynn explained. 

 “But it’s a small thing, right?” I teased Renny. 

 My bestie rolled her eyes, lips pinching. “Are you SURE?” 

 I nodded, sitting down on the cool metal bleacher again. Renny took a step towards me, a sad look on her face, but I held up my hand. 

 “I’m fine,” I said, when I felt anything but. “I just want to wait until the crowd leaves.” I picked up the popcorn bag she’d left behind and threw a handful in my mouth with a cheesy, hopefully convincing grin.

 She grimaced, briefly looking back to Lynn who was anxiously waiting. “Fine. But we’re still talking about this later. I friggin miss you.”

 She left with the others, funneling out towards a party she’d probably stay at until the early morning. 

 I didn’t want to go back to the room. I didn’t want to go anywhere. 

 The lights were so bright on soccer fields. Bugs flew in and around, racing each other faster than the dust in my room. It wasn’t until the janitors walked past me that I realized I’d been sitting there for too long. I reached in the popcorn bag, but my hand came up empty. They’d gone overboard on the salty butter, but somehow, I’d still managed to eat all of it. 

 Even with everyone off the field though, I didn’t feel alone. An older Hispanic woman taking out the trash saw me walking down and opened up the bag. 

 “Thank you,” I said, smiling. 

 She just smiled in return, nodding her head as she continued down the aisle.

 Leaving the field’s gates, I was prepping for another mini run-for-my-life-and-back-to-the-dorm anxiety episode, when I heard someone shuffling. There were faint groaning noises, and I sped up my pace. 

 For a flash second, I thought someone was winning the “sleep in the locker room” bet, but when I tossed my head-back mid-run, I stopped so quickly, I almost tripped. 

 “Harry?” 

 There, in the dark, barely concealed by the shadows, he stumbled out. His abdomen looked… glossy? But then the light reflected crimson. 

 I ran to him as he fell, his white jersey stained with blood. “Oh my God, oh my God…” I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. “What happened?! Are you okay!?” 

 He pushed me back. “M’fine.” But his voice was strained. He stumbled again, and I reached out before he fell. 

 I thought the blood from his shirt had fallen from a bloody nose, but his hand moved to my arm in a vice-like grip, revealing a gash in his jersey, I saw more liquid pool out from his gut and I almost gagged. 

 “You are BEYOND fine. You aren’t fucking fine!!” 

 “We have to leave. Have to… get out of here.” He grimaced. His face, his beautifully chiselled face was swollen on one side, his lip cut from impact. 

 “Okay. OKAY. I need to call the cops. The cops. I’m going to call them.” Shaky hands took out the cellphone, but he threw it down. “HARRY!” 

 “Take me to the physical therapy room?” 

 I looked at his chest. “You’re bleeding. A LOT.” My free arm reached for the tossed phone, but he tugged me back. 

 “No. They’ll write a report. I can’t have a-” he winced, sucking in a breath, and I reached for the phone again. “DON’T. Fucking hell. Don’t call anyone.”

 My eyes racked his frame again, and I immediately applied pressure to his ab area, right where the gash was. He sucked in a breath, unleashing a string of curses I couldn’t hear right now. “Oh my God,” I breathed. 

 “Answer me,” he growled. 

 My mind scrambled for his question… he wanted me to take him to the physical therapy room.  “YES! Yes. I have the- fuck, yes, I know where the keys are.” I looked at him again. What the FUCK.

 “Stop freaking out,” he grunted, but he weakened the next second, his eyes fluttering before coming back to me. 

 “Okay, hold on. Hold onto me. Keep applying pressure.” 

 The physical therapy room wasn’t too far, bits of blood that’d fallen to his shoes marking our path.

 “Why aren’t all the cops here?” 

 “They’re on rotation. The parties... they’llbestationedthere-JESUS.” We paused, letting him catch his breath. But it was shallow. Too shallow. 

 “Can you wait here for a second?” I asked.

 He nodded, resting against a lamp post. 

 I hurried to the lockbox located behind the planter, punching in the code and unlocking it at lightning’s speed. 

 I didn’t know if there were cameras. I didn’t know if this was illegal. 

 I didn’t care.

 We made it through the doors, and he was just about to sit on the table when- 

 “WAIT!” I ran to grab several rags and laid it beneath him before heaving him up. The soft cry he made when sitting down was like a knife through my own chest. 

 I grabbed scissors, cutting his t-shirt. I didn’t have time to linger, I didn’t have time to notice the way his tattoos were completely concealed by a red current. There were two wounds. One, deeper, the other, more shallow. Both in the lower left abdomen, just above a prominent v-line.  

 I wiped around the area, pausing above the gashes. “This is going to sting,” I warned. 

 There wasn’t fear in his eyes. He watched me, and I, him, as I pressed it against the open skin. He trembled, wincing, mouth opening in silent exclamation.  

 “You’re doing good,” I whispered. 

 “So are you,” he gritted out. 

 I swallowed, reaching for the butterfly bandages. But as soon as I did, more blood rushed out. I held a rag to him. “Save your breath. You need it.”

 The thin white bandages seemed too little in the wake of his wound, and just as one bandage was placed, he cringed away, regretting his decision to move almost immediately.

 “Fucking hurts,” he groaned. 

 “Stop moving! I need to close the wound up. You’re bleeding too much.” 

 “Y/N, just take me home. Call Lionel,” he panted. 

 “I’m calling 911 if you don’t let me at least attempt to close this wound because if we leave now you’ll bleed out.” 

 “You’ve done enough, please-”

 “STOP. TALKING. I’ll call him after.” He saw a flame behind my eyes, and quieted, too weak to protest much more anyway. I came closer, and this time he didn’t flinch. The butterfly bandages at least minimally shrunk the open gouges. 

 With no other choice, I left him there alone, running across campus to my car and driving back in less than five minutes. It was illegal to drive through student walkways, let alone drive 60 mph, but there wasn’t a choice. I kept picturing Harry passing out, his limp God-like body, turned mortal, weak, bleeding out all over the training room floor. My foot hit the gas pedal harder. I could’ve been a damn marathon winner/race car driver. Let the cops add “speeding” to the file they already had on me. 

 Once we were both in the car, I looked over at him every two seconds. An entire roll of tight gauze around his abdomen kept the wound from bleeding out, but it was still turning pink. It was the second time blood would have been on my car. 

 Of all the revenge daydreams I’d had, I would’ve settled for Harry seeing me make out with Andre on the dancefloor over THIS. Would he die in my car? Would I be responsible?? I looked at the cheesy Angel pin my mom had given me for my car mirror. Never Fly Faster Than Your Guardian Angel Can Fly. Where was my angel now?? 

 “Where are we going?” He asked, between fading in and out.

 “To your house.” 

 His hand grabbed mine on the wheel and I practically swerved into the center divider from shock. 

 “HARRY!” 

 “We need to go to my house,” he said suddenly, panicked, as if I’d told him the opposite. 

 I placed our interlocked hands above the console. A safe distance away from the wheel in case he lurched again. 

 “Don’t worry, we’re going there. We’re going to your house. You’re just in shock, it’s okay,” I cooed, but it was desperate. And it was definitely not okay. 

 “They’ll ask… less..less questions...” 

 His grip was unbearably tight for three long seconds before it relaxed. 

 “Stay with me. Stay awake,” I urged. Harry’s lids kept drooping and I was desperate, blasting the Air Conditioning to an uncomfortable temperature. 

 Lionel picked up on the second ring. 

 “It’s Y/N. I think Harry’s been stabbed-” 

 “What?!” 

 “- I told him we should call the cops, but he was adamant we call you instead.” 

 “Seal the wound with whatever you can-”

 “I did that. Not well, we didn’t have wound sealant- Okay, I’m rambling. I don’t know what to do, but he needs to see a doctor. Immediately.” 

 There was a long pause. 

 “Hello?” my voice wavered. 

 “Bring him to the practice.” The voice over the other line was that of a doctor, matter-of-fact, somber. 

 Hoag Hospital passed me, a nagging thought telling me that’s where we should be going - where there was paperwork, evidence, some legitimate accountability. But I wasn’t his father. I wasn’t responsible. 

 “On my way. I’m getting off the freeway now.” 

 The call ended, and as I looked at Harry, fading dangerously out of consciousness, my hands trembled more from fear than cold. Out of all the reactions, I hadn’t expected this one. The voice on the other line hadn’t seemed surprised at all. 

come talk to me about the chappie or just about how you’re doing! now’s the time to stay connected :) 

[impishnature]

Feather Fall (Part 3/3)

AO3 Fandom: Good Omens Rating: T+ Summary: What is an Angel without a connection to Heaven? A/N: And now for the comfort in this hurt/comfort! I hope it makes up for the pain.

Warnings: Thoughts/talk of falling. Graphic violence. Panic attacks, blood, self harm.

.

"Aziraphale?"

Not now. Any when but now.

Without even thinking about the wound that he still had to deal with, Aziraphale found himself pushing his wings back into the ether. He ignored the almost screeching pain this caused, crushing, shoving them this way and that, to fit away nicely seemed to do. It did nothing for the feeling of warmth spreading across them, speckling and smearing between them with the strange awkward movements he was making them do to accommodate the inconvenience of it all.

But it didn't matter. What mattered was Crowley couldn't see.

He went back to scrubbing his hands, pushing them deeper into the scalding water as he tried to think on what to say and bypass the stuttering panic his friend had caused.

"Aziraphale?" The voice was closer this time. Too close.

"J-just a minute!" The words croaked out him, lacking all the reassurance he had hoped to contain in them.

"Angel?-" God, that nickname felt like another wound opening in his chest. "Are you OK?"

Oh god, he was terrible at this. "Of- Of course I am, dear. Nothing to worry about." He swallowed down bile, hoping to quell the tremor on his tongue. "I'll be out in a second." Once he could get this blasted blood off of his hands.

"You don't sound alright."

Aziraphale stiffened. Crowley's voice emanated from the doorway to the room, no longer hindered by walls or doors. He swallowed, turning his head to find his friend standing there, concern practically dripping from his languid body as he leaned against the door frame. He didn't deserve all of that worry. "N-No?"

"No." Crowley's mouth slipped further downwards, his sunglasses hiding his eyes in a way that made Aziraphale feel even worse. He couldn't tell what he was thinking- was it actually concern? Or disgust? Did he know? No, he couldn't know- "There's blood on the floor."

"O-Oh." Aziraphale swallowed, looking back at his hands, still scrubbing and scratching, red, raw and numb, even as they spoke. "Blood? That's- it's not mine. Nothing to worry about."

He could have hit himself.

Not his? How dumb was he to use that as an excuse?

"Uh-huh." He heard Crowley's solid footsteps getting closer, each one another gunshot to his already shot nerves. If he got too close, then he'd realise something was off, and then- then-

Aziraphale didn't want to think about what happened then.

"You been fighting, Angel?" There was a pained humour to the other's voice, like he was trying for comedy but couldn't bring himself to really feel it when the atmosphere was so tense. "I'd hate to see the other guy if you have." Silence reigned between them, awkward and heavy and it fell like another layer of sin on Aziraphale's back. "Shall we try that again?" The words were softer this time. Gentle and calming, placating even. "What happened?"

"It was just an accident." His mouth was dry as sandpaper, his hands still straining under the water as he refused to turn and look at the other again. He wasn't sure what he would do or say if he did. "Nothing to worry about." He was a broken record, an antiquated mantra of please stop asking, please stop looking, just let me be-

Crowley had never been one to do what he was told though. Always asking the questions no one else wanted to ask.

"Shit, Aziraphale." The words were louder this time, closer than he expected and he couldn't help the pulse, the flinch of fear as arms encircled his and quickly turned off the hot tap. Of course, from where he'd been standing he probably couldn't have known, and before Aziraphale knew it there was cold water running over him instead, and careful, pliant fingers running soft trails over his scalded flesh. He could feel him healing him with every soft run of movements, slowly stitching him back together piece by piece instead of in one hit to make sure he didn't miss anything.

"What were you thinking, Angel?"

Nothing.

The simple answer lodged at the back of his throat and stuck to his tongue. This all felt too good, too gentle, the heat had been something to latch on to, a pain that kept everything raw and jagged but alive all the same.

He didn't deserve this.

He tried to tug away but the other held him with surprising strength. He found himself glancing up, to snap something vicious in the hopes he would leave him to it but the words shrivelled up and died as golden eyes locked with his, pupils blown wide with fear and heartbreaking distress.

He'd caused that.

This was why he hadn't wanted him to see.

"Shh. Stop, Angel, it's OK."

Aziraphale hadn't even realised he'd been making noise, clamping his mouth shut on the stuttered nonsensical words as Crowley looked back down at his hands, gently pulling them back under the cold spray of water. There were gentle thumbs rubbing rings into the back of his palms, and even gentler words slipping through the stilted, hushed air around them. His breathing kept hitching, soft choked noises of distress and every time Crowley gave back a soft rumble of his own, sympathetic and concerned in equal measures.

"Ready to talk?"

"No." The word came out a lot stronger and clearer than either of them had expected, startling them out of the surreal bubble that had surrounded them.

Crowley's adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, and Aziraphale hated how despondent the minuscule action seemed. "OK. That's OK. Whenever you're ready."

Never.

He'd bottle it all up again and hide away and sooner or later something would break.

It had to, this couldn't be all there was forever.

His attention zoned back into the room as Crowley gave an almost imperceptible hiss. It was just a soft exhale, a stuttered little thing but filled with so much emotion that Aziraphale couldn't help but notice. His eyes strayed back to Crowley's face, watching the yellow of his eyes grow ever brighter and leech out further. It was something he'd noticed a few times, how Crowley's eyes betrayed him no matter how hard he tried to pretend otherwise. And not in a demonic way, not in the visibly different way that he hid them for, but in the way they broadcast his emotions for the world if only they knew to stare deeply into them.

...Actually, the more he thought about it, the more he wondered if that was the real reason he hid behind dark glasses and sardonic tones.

But right now, with him, he showed all that vulnerability without a question, without a hint of shame or remorse. He wondered when he had been permitted to see this side of him, when the trust between them had grown to this level that Crowley would wear his heart on his sleeve and damn anyone who called him out on it. Perhaps, it was because it was just them against the world now. It didn't matter what the denizens of hell thought anymore-

Oh. Right. Crowley had lost his family for the second time. First, the Fall and now the apocalypse. What was he doing wallowing in self-pity when he should be helping his old friend instead? His pain couldn't even be comparable, not when he had yet to fall.

"Thanks, dear boy." The words felt like leaden weights on his tongue, characterisations of himself that didn't hit the mark. "I don't know what came over me, but I think you've uhh- you can let go now."

Crowley didn't seem to hear him. Or if he did, he pointedly ignored him, his hands tightening around Aziraphale's own, checking them over in detail as if he didn't believe his words for a second. Then again, why should he? Aziraphale had been blistering his skin to nothing, not minutes before, why would his opinion on how healed they were alleviate his concerns? So, instead, he watched his gaze, waiting for the moment when he deemed his ministrations complete. But for some reason, he couldn't get a read entirely on them as they flicked back and forth, processing, his mouth a thin tight line as if there was so much that wanted to spew forth and he was trying his best to control himself.

Aziraphale followed his gaze when he realised a response was not forthcoming. He traced the lines that he was navigating with his eyes. Took in the pink flecks of water that coated the inside of the sink- his stomach rebelled against him, he'd have to scrub that next, scrub and scrub until it shined brighter than it had ever shined before. Winced at the bright red hand prints that clenched tightly to the edge, holding on for dear life and smearing across the faucet in a line of desperation.

Of course the man was worried, wouldn't he himself be if he saw this sight?

That wasn't the worst of it, however.

It took a few more seconds, drawn out and slow as if his world was standing on the edge of a precipice and he hadn't quite realised he'd already fallen off long ago. As if the whistling winds had just managed to catch up with him and remind him that he had jumped, that he had taken the step and now all he could do was watch as the ground came closer and closer to greet him.

His hands trembled against warm soothing skin, catching him as he fell.

He realised what Crowley had hissed at now.

His eyes followed the pink rivulets of bloody water, getting redder and redder until they caught on the offending article from before.

The awful, hideous excuse of a feather. 

It glared defiantly back at him, its jagged edge sharp and pointed as if it was ready and waiting to cut him to the quick and bleed him dry of everything that made him him, its bedraggled barbs proving that he was no more an angel than the man stood beside him.

You did this to me. It whispered insidiously. You tore me out and you only have yourself to blame.

"Angel, breathe."

Oh.

He took a shuddering gasp, eyes flicking back to Crowley though the other hadn't even looked around.

He always knew exactly what he needed. Maybe not always what he wanted, but what he needed nonetheless.

...He was beginning to feel lightheaded. Was it due to the outpouring of concern beside him? Or the fact that he kept forgetting to breathe as everything he wished to hide got closer to the surface?

"Is that-" Crowley's voice hit a pitch that he wasn't sure he'd heard before, or at least not in a very long time. It was high, stilted and it hitched with a choke that he wished to soothe in turn, wished to right whatever wrong had caused that much distress and hating all the while that it was him. He had done that. "Is that a pin feather?"

Oh no.

His wing ached against his back, burning with the loss as if recalled to existence by Crowley's words.

He knew.

He knows. He knows what you've done. He knows what's happening to you.

He'll leave soon. He'll leave you to fall, just like he had to, just like they all had to.

Why would anyone stay around to comfort you through that? Falling alone shows what you have become. It is a punishment, a grief you must bear alone.

"Angel, what have you been doing to yourself?"

The hands migrated to his wrists, pulling them back out of the water and turning him around, so that the pair now faced one another. The water still gushed from the sink, forgotten and unimportant in the whole scheme of things. He wasn't even sure the question had been for him, it sounded more rhetoric, more an utterance of pure disheartened dismay and it made his eyes sting with every unshed emotion.

Crowley didn't deserve this.

He shouldn't have to put up with all of this, he shouldn't even know about it.

"Aziraphale? Speak to me." A gentle hand cupped his cheek, the other still holding both his own as if to stop him from pulling away. And he did- he did want to pull away but he also wanted to hide in his embrace, hide from all the sorrow and fear, and just break.

But that wasn't fair. Not to him.

The hand tugged at his chin, pulling his face up until their eyes met and he watched as Crowley searched his face for something- anything, that would tell him how to continue, tell him how to help.

But he couldn't- he shouldn't.

"What's going on?"

No, it would be best if he could just fake it all until Crowley left and then- then he could get back to wallowing.

"N-nothing." The word finally slipped out of him, like a poison that dripped sweet and sickly down his lips. "It was an accident, you know me, so- so clumsy and all. I'd forget my head if it wasn't screwed on." He swallowed, the lump in his throat growing in size as if to suffocate him with his own lies. Crowley's eyes bore into him all the while. "Humans are so fragile, aren't they? Completely forgot that they can't take heat like that."

"Yeah?" The word was skeptical at best, and yet there was a soft humour mixed into it that he couldn't help but relax into.

"Yep." He popped the 'p' with a sheepish chuckle, tugging his arms out of Crowley's grip. He lamented the move almost immediately, the cold burrowing into the spaces where his fingers had rested. The hand dropped from his cheek, in return, leaving a cold burn that he held on to, keeping him in the moment, wishing it was there once more as much as he was relieved by its removal. "Thank you for your assistance."

"...Right." Crowley raised an eyebrow at him, fiddling with his sunglasses as if debating putting them back on. Aziraphale's heart sunk, there was something in the movement that left him feeling doubtful and on edge. "You still didn't answer my question, you know."

"O-Oh?"

"Yeah. Is that a pin feather?" Crowley stared down at his own hands as an awkward silence filled the air between them. His words were nonchalant, filled with a distant calm as if they were merely discussing the weather. He placed his glasses down on the kitchen side, Aziraphale softly exhaling in relief until his hand instead reached for the bloody, mangled remains in the sink. Red stained his fingers, and Aziraphale resisted the insistent urge to slap it out of his hands and rinse off the vile blood from him before it could corrupt him too. Instead, he watched as the other delicately span the chunk of feather, with no hint of concern to the situation or what it could do to him. "You realise that they don't stop bleeding, right?" Crowley's eyes flicked back to him for a moment, once again betraying the racing fear that his mouth was resolutely denying. "If you don't leave them to grow like they should or get them out entirely they just bleed and bleed."

Oh.

Perhaps, that was why he felt lightheaded.

His wings beat again with a swell of pain, warm and heavy and wet. He hadn't noticed the wet before, seeping through in bubbling patches, probably coating the ether as much as himself. The urge to cry was near suffocating, his throat hitching with the dismay of it all. Everything was ruined now, everything was worthless and soaked and he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to clean the stain of it away. He felt lopsided, heavy, like one wing was now a dead weight, fallen and useless at his side. 

He'd gone and done it now, hadn't he? He'd started the process and there was nothing he could do. Caught in the middle, one wing lost and the other still trying desperately to keep him skyward.

And Crowley still kept flicking his gaze to him, a lightning strike every time, waiting for him to make the next move.

"I-I see." Damn it. Why did he say anything at all? It felt like he'd confirmed something he shouldn't have as Crowley nodded, placing the feather shaft on the side, causing another stain that Aziraphale desperately wanted to burn from existence. Why didn't he realise how much it meant? Why didn't he put it back instead of creating more mess? But for whatever reason, the other seemed unaffected by the disapproving noise, turning back to face him fully.

"We should deal with that then, shouldn't we?"

Time sped back up.

It gave him whiplash, pulling him back into the world with a violent thud. What could he do? What could he say? His mind was blank with the sudden change in pressure, and yet every second he waited was another push forward from the other, another moment lost to contain the situation before it got out of hand.

And it would get out of hand- Crowley couldn't- he wouldn't let him see- his wings were a mess, a state- there was nothing left to them that would give the other pause. He would take one look and he wouldn't be able to keep the disgust from his features, he'd laugh at the pathetic waste he was. He couldn't even fall properly, couldn't even be a demon without ripping out his feathers in fear of what was to come. He'd snarl at him. Did he hate the thought of being like him that much? Did he despise him that much?

No. No, he couldn't see. His world would crumble and he'd be left all alone again.

He needed to be alone, but only for a little while. Once he'd come to terms with it all, Crowley would be there for him, he'd understand.

He just needed to deal with this part by himself.

"N-No!" His voice cracked, loud and abrasive against the hushed air, both of them flinching at the boom of it. "No, that's- that's quite all right. You shouldn't have to deal with that. I can do it perfectly well on my own, thank you very much."

"I mean, the fact that you haven't yet would beg to differ."

"Just because I didn't realise, doesn't mean I'm incapable." Aziraphale's gaze hardened, his anger fuelled by utter fear and vulnerability. "I can look after myself adequately, I'll have you know."

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Never said you couldn't. Doesn't mean you can't have help every once in a while." His other eyebrow joined the first, a knowing hint to his eyes that Aziraphale loathed. "And you weren't complaining a few moments ago when it came to your hands."

"Y-yes, well. That's different."

"Is it?"

"Yes." Aziraphale nodded as Crowley's mouth twisted down at one side, a thoughtful grimace as his eyebrows furrowed over an irritated gaze. "It's more- personal? Yes, that's it. Personal. I can deal with it myself." He swallowed as the other continued to silently stare, glancing away from the plaintive gaze. "But- thank you, for the concern, that is."

The silence stretched between them.

He hazarded a quick look over at the other and caught a strange glint of determined apology in his expression.

"How long have you been plucking, Angel?"

Oh, drat.

"Plucking? Deliberate- how could you think that, that's-" True, so very true, but how could he have cottoned on that quickly. Surely it wasn't that obvious. Indignation rattled through him, fake and nauseating but quick tempered in the heat of his sick shame. "Ridiculous! Abhorrent! Why would I- the nerve of you." He swallowed, plucking up the courage before taking quick strides past the other, ignoring how his face fell along with his heart. "I told you it was an accident. Now if you don't mind, I'd rather you left so I could deal with the- bleeding, as you called it."

"Angel-"

"Stop. You've done enough." Please. Please just go.

"Where are they?"

Aziraphale paused in the doorway, his heart hammering against his rib cage. He turned his head slowly to look back over his shoulder, hesitant and fearful that this would be the moment he broke- but the other hadn't moved. He was still standing where he had left him, facing the other way, his question light and soft, in contrast to his tightly clenched fists. "Where's-?"

"The feathers." Crowley turned then, freezing Aziraphale where he stood. He felt like prey, caught in the snake's sharp slitted gaze. His pupils had thinned to sharp points, taking everything in and leaving him feeling more seen that he would have thought possible. "Come now, Angel. I know you. You wouldn't get rid of them. Miracling them away would make you feel worse, so- what did you do with them?" He tilted his head, mulling over the question in his head as if he'd never actually meant for Aziraphale to answer him.

"I- whatever you are implying I can assure you, you're mistaken-"

"No... No." Crowley hummed, tapping his foot, cutting off his words as resolutely as if he'd struck him. "See, I can't imagine you getting rid of them. Not if you're plucking deliberately-"

"But I'm not-"

"And, there's no sign of them down here, well, other than the obvious." His eyes flicked back to the worktop as if the other hadn't spoken before locking back on to him. "So, where..."

Aziraphale sighed, shaking his head as he turned to leave again. "This is utterly ridiculous, Crowley. You should leave."

"So, they are here then." His voice carried, louder, musing, as if he had confirmed everything with his denial.

He hated it. Hated how the other could see through him like this.

"What?"

"Hmm... I'm going to say upstairs, you hardly ever go up there so why not?"

A bucket of ice water fell on to Aziraphale's head, slipping down his spine to leave him shaking with the sudden cold. "P-preposterous."

"Then you won't mind me taking a look."

He was far too serpentine for his own good.

Aziraphale blinked as he felt warmth beside him for barely a moment and then it was gone again, worming around him in that quick and yet unhurried pace than only Crowley seemed able to commit too. He slunk past, without even a second glance, and Aziraphale felt his lungs lock up at the path he had taken.

It was like watching a car crash, an inescapable catastrophe. His words caught in his throat, panic fluttering through him like so many of the rotten feathers he had discarded upstairs, all of them rattling and howling throughout his being, begging to be shown, begging to be released- and it felt like there was nothing he could do to sway the course of time.

The squeak of the first step was what it took to break the moment.

He slammed into the other room, ricocheting off the door frame in his haste. "Wait!"

The demon paused at the bottom of his stairs, poised to continue but waiting as he requested. It would have been ironic, a demon doing as he was told, in any other situation but this. "So?"

Aziraphale coughed. "S-So, what?"

Crowley sighed, his shoulders slumping. "I just want to help, Angel."

"I-I know that, Crowley, but you-"

"So they are up there then?"

No matter what he did, he couldn't get a handle on the conversation. Crowley saw right through him, every single time. "I- That is- Crowley, please don't go up there."

"OK."

Crowley took his foot off the bottom step, still staring into the dark abyss that was his staircase. Aziraphale could hear the whispers of his sins, like ghosts above them, but he ignored them, hidden in the relief that was the other staying with him.

"We really should see to your wing, Aziraphale."

He didn't know what to say to that.

"I can't help you if you don't let me." Crowley finally turned to him again, eyes sparkling wetly, making his stomach lurch with a new wave of remorse and guilt. "I know it's hard to let people help but- sometimes, you can't get through it all on your own."

Aziraphale swallowed, his mouth like sandpaper. "I don't know how."

He hadn't even meant to say that and yet it felt right. How could anyone help with this? Why should they? It was all part of the plan... wasn't it?

"That's OK. Let me try and we'll see how it goes, OK? Please, just let me try." Crowley's eyes beseeched him, his fingers once more finding Aziraphale's hands and the latter found that it was Crowley this time who shook beneath his grasp. "I thought I'd lost you once before. I'd rather not watch that happen again, only slower this time and without being able to help."

Oh, how could this man ever be a demon?

Or was this how it worked? Another temptation? Another insidious little wisp that drove him deeper on his path. Let me in, let me in, please, let me in.

...It didn't feel like a temptation.

In fact it felt like another punishment. Another sin against him. How could he hurt Crowley so? If he'd only been more careful, if he'd only thought more, then perhaps his friend wouldn't have had to watch the world burn on his own for a while.

I've lost my best friend.

God, those words stung. The care, the grief. He'd done that, all that time ago. He'd never have thought the other could care so deeply but it was clear as day when he looked at him, bright as shimmering gold and as painful as sharp glass.

Perhaps another punishment was in order.

Aziraphale found himself unable to disagree with those eyes. Those eyes that saw through him so easily and captivated him even easier.

He found himself unable to look any longer into those pools of molten gold, couldn't bear to see his expression morph into horror, into that loathsome repugnant expression he himself wore whenever he stared in the mirror.

He closed his eyes, felt the hands in his grip tighter in solidarity, proud and thankful as he coaxed him to continue. He took a steadying breath and let his wings unfurl. It was more painful than he expected, like dragging them back into existence pulled at every aching expanse of skin and barely held together feathers, each one a vibration of pain against the edges of the ether. He heard liquid splatter against the ground in a sickening thud once they were fully exposed, one hanging limper than the other. The scent of blood spread like miasma between them, like the battlefields of old or a hospital where he hoped to help with their pain the best he could and wept over what humans could do to one another.

What they could do to themselves.

It wouldn't be long now. He'd pull away from the carnage soon enough. He'd run from it all, run from the burden that was him.

"Oh, Angel."

The words were so plaintive, so filled with love and sorrow that his knees buckled at the sound of them. He'd expected disgust, revulsion, at best pity. But this wasn't pity, this was raw desolate heartbreak. It seeped into his soul, tightened constrictingly around his chest and made it hard to breathe. He'd expected him to yell, to scream, to tell him he was everything he thought he was. But this whisper. This soft hum of horror that wormed its way into his ears and tore him down piece by piece as if the walls he had built around himself were nothing but cardboard and paper.

"What have you done to yourself, my love?"

The words continued to break down the barriers he'd forced up, the simple soft term of endearment shaking him to his core. It was less of a question and more of an answer, dredging up every injury he had done to himself, every broken moment that he had tried to pretend had never happened whenever anyone came near.

He had done this.

Not Her. Not Them.

Him.

Had he ever truly needed anyone else to destroy himself so utterly and completely?

There were soft hands on his elbows now. He hadn't even realised they had moved, his legs giving out on him entirely it seemed, as he slumped forward into the other who was continuing soft lilting mantras as if he could fix the world with just his words. Perhaps he could. Aziraphale wouldn't have been surprised. So self-assured, so ready to take on everyone and everything- did he ever doubt himself? Doubt that he could achieve everything he put his mind to?

My love.

Why did those words sting?

Perhaps because he didn't deserve them.

"Hey now, it's OK. I've got you. Let me help you."

He felt himself get manoeuvred into a seated position, as comfortable as possible, considering the circumstances. The hands at his elbows vanished, leaving warm imprints where they had been, before bright hot fingers found his face, soothing and soft against his cheeks. He flinched at the contact ever so slightly, more unexpected than anything, confused by the wet trails that the man wiped away with light hands and even lighter murmurs, coaxing him out of the dark pit he had found himself in. He opened bleary eyes, blinking rapidly to try and form a coherent image as the flow of water pooled and receded with every blink.

"That's it. Look at me, Angel. I'm right here." There was a watery sheen to the others face, desperate bright eyes gleaming like molten gold, fiery red hair burning like the sun against the darkness he had let himself sink into.

He'd been drowning for so long, the air felt like it burned, the heat felt ice cold and prickled at his skin.

How long had he been depriving himself of the sun as penance for his sins?

How long had he lingered in the shadows waiting for the final step to plunge him headfirst into Hell?

"Shh, shh, it's OK. I promise you it's OK." He felt himself get engulfed, heard his own hitching sobs through a fog of static that was muffled further by cloth, as warm arms encircled him and began to rock him gently. When had he become so gentle? When had the abrasive edge worn down to this soft, warm being? "I'll get you through this, don't you worry. Just please let me help you."

It was like every word from the others lips made a journey through his ears and down his face, healing and breaking him anew with every stuttered gasp.

"I-I didn't mean to-"

"Shh, I know. I know."

"But-"

"It's OK."

Aziraphale felt more than heard the long sigh as he shook his head and buried it further into Crowley's chest. It wasn't OK, not really. Nothing was. How could it be?

"Alright, maybe it's not OK. " Crowley shrugged, bumping him ever so slightly in the process. "But it will be."

"How-" There was a lump of tar in his throat, solid and stifling. He swallowed, grateful when the other continued to rock him silently, waiting patiently. "How do you know?"

"Easy." Crowley pulled back enough to catch his eye, smile wobbly but there, if ever so painful and concerned. "When have we ever not done what we put our minds to?"

Aziraphale blinked at him, tears momentarily ceasing in his confusion. "Since Eden? I feel like there's many times I could think of."

"Fair. So maybe it took time, and more trial and error than I will ever admit- but we still got there in the end, didn't we?" Crowley's smile grew as Aziraphale frowned. "And sure, this isn't going to be as easy as miracling away a few feathers-" He tried to ignore the wince his words caused. "-but that doesn't mean you won't be back to your old self again soon."

Aziraphale's expression dropped further, hiding his face again before speaking. "I don't know about that."

"Of course not. Cause you're in there." Aziraphale squeaked as his forehead was flicked before the arm continued its journey and he found himself freezing as fingers threaded between feathers at the base of his wings. "Now then, I think we should get to the most pressing matter at hand, if that's alright?"

"I don't-"

"Come on, Angel. You can't do this alone."

He found himself unable to respond. There was so much in that short sentence. Not even a please and yet the plea was there, strong and anchoring, a prayer that the other uttered only for him, and only to him. He could only nod, sinking forward into the embrace and pushing his wings within reach. He felt the other relax beneath him, one hand continuing to create soft movements in the down at his back, reassuring, warm motions, tangling and untangling with a rhythmic pattern that drew his attention away from everything else. It wasn't until there was a sharp knot of pain that his mind snapped back to what was happening, as a hand found the offending tattered remnant of the feather he'd snapped earlier.

"Sorry." The ministrations of his other hand grew stronger, trying to counteract the pain and even as Aziraphale gritted his teeth he knew Crowley was trying his best to work as quickly and as painlessly as possible. The feather came out with a sharp tug, a squelch of liquid pain that he whimpered through without thought but the hollow numb pain afterwards was still a relief from the pinprick of before.

"There we go." A soft cloth was pressed against the wound, though he wasn't sure where it had come from. "That should do it. It can start healing now." There was a pressure on top of his head, heated lips against his curls that rumbled out sweet words straight into his skull. "You can start to heal."

Could it really be that simple?

Crowley laughed, a soft, strange noise but one that Aziraphale didn't find himself minding, even if he found it out of place. "Maybe not. But a start is better than nothing."

Oh.

He hadn't meant to say anything out loud.

There were hands at his elbows again, this time pulling him upwards, more an invitation, a hope, than anything forceful. "How about we continue the process?"

Aziraphale didn't really understand, his head was so full of cotton wool, questions that lay unanswered, events that he had foreseen that had never taken place, taking up the necessary space to function. All the reassurance was getting to him, it was a balm on his broken parts, though it stung, medicinal and cleansing in it's burning sensation. It left him hollow, exhausted beyond belief and yet he felt better than he had since the ordeal had begun.

The voices had been swallowed up, suffocated; strangled by the vines and flowers that were Crowley's words trailing into the spaces of his soul, pulling him back together and holding him there until he could stand on his own two feet once more without crumbling to dust.

He was alone, finally alone within his own head.

And yet the hand on his arm reminded him that he wasn't truly alone, no matter what Heaven decided for him.

How ironic, that a demons presence could soothe the aching hole that angels had left in him.

He jolted back to reality as he felt the back of his knees hit something solid and he fell into a seated position on his own comfortable couch. Before he could ask what was happening Crowley had vanished from his peripherals, propping his wings up over the back for easy access and to keep them in a relaxed position so that Aziraphale wouldn't have to stiffly hold up the worn out appendages.

However, that wasn't quite where Aziraphale's mind went, his heart plummeting into his stomach to twist nauseatingly in his own festering thoughts.

"Oh Go- dear, there's going to be blood everywhere. I should-"

"Stop."

Aziraphale swallowed drily as Crowley gave the command. There was no heat to the words, only that constant pressure of knowing support. He wasn't sure how the other knew what to do or how to do it and yet each utterance gave him pause instead of inciting him to anger or defence.

He wasn't sure why everything was tying him into knots but if Crowley knew the answer, then who was he to stop him?

"Just let me take care of it all." Crowley's head appeared upside down from above him. "All you need to do is rest."

Aziraphale gave out a choking laugh. "You make it sound like I'm ill."

Crowley pulled back, but his words still sent his thoughts racing once more. "You are ill, Angel. That's all this is. And once we find out what's going on, I assure you, you'll get better again."

Aziraphale slumped, though he straightened up once the other hissed in discontent and propped him back up to a better position for him to work. He felt deft hands begin to tweak at his blood soaked wings, repulsion and disgust beating through him in equal measures. "I already know what's caused this." Before Crowley could get a word in edge ways he derailed the conversation. "You're going to get blood all over you if you do that."

He could almost hear the eye roll he received, the soft sarcastic snort as Crowley ignored him and continued on. "I'm prepared for that, Angel." Aziraphale twitched, eyebrows furrowing as the parts that the other touched felt cleaner already, without anything being added. He wasn't sure why another's miracles felt more real than his own, but this- this didn't strike him as a lie like his own did. "Now, will you let me continue without any more interruptions?"

Aziraphale huffed, sniffing petulantly, not even realising the air of normality emanating between them. "Fine."

"Thank you." The words dripped with fake gratitude, sarcasm rolling off of his tongue to land in amongst Aziraphale's curls and he couldn't help but chuckle at the barbed tone. The silence became more bearable, more peaceful as he felt his rough edges get sanded down, soothed as each sparse feather was put back into its perfect place in a way he knew he'd never have been able to achieve. "So... what caused all this then? If you already know, that is." The words were hesitant, on tenterhooks as if with a gust of wind all of his efforts would be torn out of his hands and he'd only have himself to blame.

Aziraphale couldn't help the shame that bubbled up his throat at the careful manner he was being treated. He felt fragile. Raw and broken, and he wasn't sure he deserved for anyone else to pick up the pieces, let alone this delicately.

"I thought you didn't want any more interruptions?"

The words fell out of him with little struggle, a strange hysterical bubble of routine, a strange semblance of rationality that didn't quite reach his heart as it normally would.

Crowley however, laughed at the utterance, dropping his head down to knock it against the back of his. "There he is."

"I'm sorry?"

"There's the bastard I know."

The rumble of laughter continued, rattling through the back of him and he found that he couldn't help but reciprocate it. It wasn't quite right, more a release of energy, a burst of emotion that needed an outlet other than tears. It echoed and was shared between them, stifling everything else if only for a moment in a heady haze of relief masquerading as humour.

Perhaps things would be alright.

In the end at least.

"I can work and talk, you know that."

"Can you? I've seen you fall over air before."

"But I did continue talking, didn't I?"

Aziraphale's laugh grew lighter. "It's hard to get you to stop."

"Exactly. So, you know exactly what I meant by interruptions to my work. Now. Talk." Crowley's hands faltered, his words becoming less assured and worried. "That is- if you want to talk to me."

Aziraphale let his shoulders slump. He deserved this, didn't he? If he was doing all this work when he really should leave him to it, then he at least deserved an answer, right?

And if he was honest, it would be nice to have someone else's opinion, even if all it did was confirm his own suspicions.

"I don't know who I am anymore."

"That's easy. You're Aziraphale."

A bubble of unexpected laughter escaped him. "You know that's not what I mean."

"Then what do you mean?"

Aziraphale gave an irritated sigh. Why was this so difficult to formulate? "What kind of Angel am I? What kind of Angel doesn't have a link to Heaven?"

"Probably a very good one, if you ask me."

"Crowley."

"What? It's true. They're all up their own arses-" Another choked off squeal of Crowley gave him pause. "Alright, alright- but I stand by what I said." Aziraphale felt a rather itchy knot of feathers loosen and relax beneath clever fingers. "You're a better person than all of them combined. So I'd say you're a better angel than any one of them too." He sighed when Aziraphale didn't answer, fingers twiddling into another stuck together clump of down. "You care, Angel. A lot more than any of them have in a very long time. If She can't see that then She's blind."

"Crowley." He wasn't sure if he was reprimanding him or in awe of his spirit.

"I mean it. The world would have gone to shit with them in charge. Maybe She meant for us to do what we did- maybe She didn't. Doesn't mean we didn't do the right thing by the humans. And I'd like to think that matters."

Aziraphale sank back into the chair, his head falling back to watch Crowley work. "I'd like to think that too." The words were barely a whisper, more a breath of air with words dashed in between. A prayer, a promise, something unspoken that could shatter if given freely to the world around them.

"Then that's all there is to it."

He made it all sound so easy. Aziraphale closed his eyes, his body limp and tired from the array of emotions. It all sounded so simple, too good to be true, and perhaps that's why it was so hard to believe.

"But I understand, you know."

Aziraphale opened his eyes slowly, catching hold of golden orbs above him, face guilty though he wasn't quite sure why. "Hmm?"

"It must be hard to be... disconnected. Cut adrift." Aziraphale's stomach clenched in sympathy as Crowley glanced away, broke the moment. "No matter how much you hated them watching your every move, and how they treated you, they were still family, right? It still... hurts to be abandoned like that." He sighed, hands patting softly down the entire length of Aziraphale's wings. "No wonder you resorted to- this. The emotional strain must have-"

"Oh. Oh, Crowley, I am sorry."

Crowley's head snapped up, eyes perplexed and sharply determined. "Hey, you don't have anything to apologise to me ab-" The determination dimmed into furrowed bemusement. "Wait, what are you apologising for?"

"You- this- everything." Aziraphale sat up, though he still kept his head tilted towards the other, keeping hold of his expression. It wouldn't do now to stop watching, he needed to know what the other truly felt and thought about all of this. He may insist on helping but if it wounded him too much then he wouldn't hear of it a second more. "I keep getting so caught up in it all that I forget you've been through this- worse than this. They were your family too, once upon a time, and I keep trying so hard not to remind you of- well- and now your other family has abandoned you too and all I can do is wallow in this God awful self-"

"Hey, hey, stop." Crowley's hands were on his face again, holding him where they could both stare at one another, though mildly disorienting by their angle. The angel found nothing but resolution in the demons gaze, fond exasperated resolve with none of the bitter tang that he had envisioned there. "That was all so long ago, that wound has had so much time to heal. But yours is raw and new, its still bleeding."

Aziraphale felt tears prickling at his eyes once more. "Am I falling?"

Crowley's face fell like his heart had been shattered. Like the mere suggestion hurt him deeply. "No, my love. The fact that you think you've done anything to warrant falling is almost too much to bear. You're so good, Angel, so good, I don't know how you can't see that."

"But-"

"But nothing."

Aziraphale shook his head, eyes bright as he stared at Crowley's daring gaze. "But if I'm not falling, then why-" He swallowed, his mouth too dry to formulate the fear that was gluing his tongue to the roof of his mouth. "Why are you doing all of this? Why aren't you just-"

Crowley frowned, his eyebrows furrowing as if it were obvious. "Just because you're hurting differently to others, doesn't mean you don't deserve help."

There was a spark then. A fizzling strange sensation that started in his heart and pumped out through his blood stream. Crowley had set off synapses that had previously become locked off, nerve patterns that he hadn't felt in a while, seeping in comforting, well-intentioned thoughts to crush the straggling remainders of the doubts that still lingered in his head. He couldn't quite put his finger on it but it all sounded so desperately, honestly human. And for all their faults and flaws, their differences and experiences made them whole and breathtakingly unique.

There really was nothing like watching humans and random acts of kindness, with or without the fear of the Almighty to bend their way.

He resented it sometimes, that ignorance, that bliss, but it also gave him hope when he watched them look after one another in no ones namesake but their own.

It took him a moment to realise Crowley was still watching him, waiting for a doubt or two still refusing to be dissuaded to bubble up out past his lips in the hope of being quashed too. "Isn't it still raw for you too?"

"Falling? Sometimes." Crowley shrugged, though the tremor in his fingers gave Aziraphale a different message. "But it hurts a lot less now." His smile turned toothy, cheeky and bright though it didn't quite reach his eyes like it might usually. "What with an Angel seemingly able to stand the sight of me. Maybe I haven't fallen as far as I thought I had."

"You're not a bad person, Crowley." Aziraphale raised his hands to press them against Crowley's, revelling in the moment they never could have had before. "But that's not what I meant. I meant being disconnected from, well- Hell."

"Oh." Crowley's face twisted thoughtfully. "They were never family, Angel. I'm sure I thought of them as family once, while- before the Fall. But afterwards... it wasn't the same. None of us were." Crowley's thumb moved in soft circles as his smile turned nostalgic and sheepish. "You were always far more family than any of them were." His smile changed, his adam's apple bobbing as he gulped down a stagnant fear that flickered behind his eyes. "Losing you scares me a lot more."

The remnants of doubts shrivelled up beneath that remark. Losing Crowley... Losing Crowley instead of losing his connection to Heaven.

...He'd make his choice again and again and again.

Aziraphale tilted his head, brushing his lips against the palm of Crowley's hand and feeling the tremor in it once more. "Losing you scares me too."

Crowley sighed, relaxing into the sensation. Aziraphale could feel his pulse beneath his lips, could feel the feather light thrum that spoke of a quickening heart beat, all the fear, all the sorrow at his actions. But he could also feel that the other knew he had begun to get through to him, he could feel that heady relief that maybe he was making a difference.

"I didn't have anyone to help me after I fell, Angel. Let me be here for you. Let me make sure you never have to go through any of this alone, no matter the outcome."

Aziraphale knew he would let him. He'd let him do anything in that moment. He had healed him more than he ever thought possible in the space of minutes, whereas alone he had stewed and suffered and broken himself time and time again. "OK."

"Thank you." The words were punctuated with a kiss to his forehead, a warm breath of gratitude that lingered in his blood and sparked through his brain. "They never deserved you. You're too good for all of them."

Aziraphale let out a breathy laugh, closing his eyes as he finally let Crowley retract his hands from his grip and get back to work. It was obvious he didn't believe him, but he also knew that Crowley would repeat the words until there was a chance that might change and it filled him with a warmth that couldn't be quelled by cold thoughts alone. "How are you so good at this, my dear?"

Crowley's hands stuttered on his wings, like he'd been caught in a lie, or gotten himself tangled physically in feathers that were too sparse to cause such a reaction. "What was that?"

Aziraphale's eyes opened once more, taking in the man who now refused to meet his gaze, concentrating on his own hands and fiddling ever so focused as if their conversation had taken a turn he hadn't been prepared for. Aziraphale didn't know what had changed. "I just- you're so good at reassuring me and-" He gestured at his wings, the ache between them melting with every melded feather. "None of this has taken you by surprise."

"Oh, it did. The thought that you would-" Crowley swallowed thickly, his hands tracing patterns across outstretched wings reverently, apologetically. "If I was any good at this, I would have noticed the signs a lot sooner. I would have thought about what this could do to you."

Aziraphale frowned, trying his hardest to catch Crowley's gaze but failing miserably. He tried to sit up, to turn but Crowley tutted at him, tugging him back into position so that he could continue with only a quick mutter about interruptions. "I don't- that's not on you, Crowley."

"It is."

"There's no possible way you could have seen-"

"I could have. Because I've seen them before."

Their eyes locked then, Crowley's gaze more defeated than Aziraphale had ever seen it. But the words didn't quite make sense to him, there was a connection there that had yet to line up, to sink in and until then he felt like there were leagues and leagues of distance between them. "I- I don't understand."

Crowley smiled slightly, a sad smile, more of a grimace than anything mirth filled. It was a knowing expression, like everything that Aziraphale was going through made complete and utter sense to him, but he didn't see how. Not when he couldn't understand it himself. Not when every moment thinking on it felt like pushing through thick black tar and made his head pulse with bands of pain.

"You've helped someone else through-"

"No, Angel, guess again."

Aziraphale faltered, still struggling to break the surface of the mystery. Had he learnt from the humans? No, that didn't feel right. But if it wasn't another demon then-

I didn't have anyone to help me after I fell.

Oh no.

He couldn't mean-

But the look that he was giving him, that vulnerable gaze, the one that knew he had been seen as Aziraphale stared at him with wild pained eyes was all he needed to know that it was true.

"Oh- Oh, Crowley."

"It's all in the past."

"But your- your wings are gorgeous, my dear, why on Earth would you-"

"They weren't always." Crowley shrugged, eyes finding refuge back in his work. "Or well, they didn't always seem that way. Not when they burnt black suddenly where they had been white before. They changed so drastically, so quickly and they showed everything I hated about-" He took a deep breath, closing his eyes as his hands tightened their grip unthinkingly. "I hated them. And I tore them apart." The whimper that escaped Aziraphale's lips pulled him back to him, let his fists unfurl and his eyes return the devastated hopeless look that Aziraphale's held. "I thought if I pulled apart the pieces of me that proved I was a demon then perhaps- maybe I could-"

"Perhaps it would be penance enough."

Aziraphale finished his sentence for him without intention, the void between them filled with the fear, and the longing for Heaven's forgiveness. Crowley had long ago realised it was futile, however. Now it was just for him to come to terms with.

And wasn't the thought of Crowley tearing himself apart just enough for him to realise that this was not penance, this was just blind punishment for sins that had never truly been committed.

"Well, I love your wings, just as they are." Aziraphale raised his arms slightly, gesturing for Crowley to come closer, as if he wished to run his fingers through his wings as much as he was doing through his. To soothe any lingering doubts and pains until all the regrets from the past fell away in his molts and left the beauty inside to shine on through.

Crowley leant close enough for him to reach him, smiling softly as he did so. "Well, I think your wings are lovely too, Angel. White, black or any colour in between, I'll still adore them because they're yours."

Aziraphale's nose scrunched up. "Bald and broken and bleeding? Hardly lovely."

Crowley shrugged. "Feathers grow back. My wings are proof of that."

"You think it'll be that easy?"

"Easy? Oh, it's never easy, Angel." Crowley let his hands fall on to his shoulders, creating more distracting patterns with his ever moving thumbs. "It'll take good days and bad days and everything in between. But I'll be here if you'll let me. Hopefully I can make the process easier than if you were... alone."

Aziraphale ran a soothing thumb along Crowley's cheek, his mind caught on the thought of him alone and unsure at the start of the world, never knowing exactly what was right or wrong to do. "I trust you." He realised too late that he hadn't really answered the question, but the look on Crowley's face let him know that it had hit true.

"Good. That's all I need to hear." Crowley grinned, a slightly mischievous look that Aziraphale couldn't help but get suspicious at. "So, if it's alright with you, I'd like to do this again for you. I'll make sure you don't over groom or pluck out feathers whenever your thoughts get the better of you. All you have to do is talk to me instead."

Aziraphale bit his lip, eyes dancing around his face. "What if you're- I should be able to look after myself."

"Angel."

"What if I can't help myself?"

Crowley nodded, understanding plain and clear in his eyes. "Then I'll have to give you a deterrent." His smile turned cheeky again. "I'll make you wear mittens, that way you can't do anything to them."

"Crowley-" Aziraphale huffed, rolling his eyes. "I'm not a child or- I can take mittens off you know."

"Hmm, true." Crowley hummed, face turning thoughtful as he tapped a tune with his fingers. "How about a curse then? Every time you go to touch your wings, they'll appear on your hands to remind you not to touch them."

Aziraphale blinked at him before his eyes narrowed. "You wouldn't."

"I might." Crowley raised his eyebrows, as if daring him to ask again before his face softened considerably. "But I'd rather you came to me if you were struggling. And just for a little while, I hope you can let me take care of you."

He was just so perfect.

Aziraphale didn't know what came over him in that moment. There was something bold, something new, something that had been hinted at between them for so long but now it was broken and laid bare and it was so breathtakingly there for the taking that he couldn't help but dare to choose.

And if it all fell apart in his hands, perhaps he could blame the blood loss and emotional turmoil.

He pulled Crowley down towards him, getting a startled yelp for his actions that he swallowed against his lips. Another surprised noise escaped the other but he pressed back just as passionately, eager and bright, and filled with so much love, Aziraphale thought he might burst at the seams from it.

They broke apart quickly, a lull of giddiness that felt strange against the seriousness of the situation. Crowley chuckled against his lips, short puffs of air that he wanted to swallow once more but a hand held him down ever so slightly.

"Now, what did I say about interruptions?"

Aziraphale chuckled, letting Crowley's head go with only minimal dramatics. "That they prove I'm a bastard?"

"Of course that's what you take away from that." Crowley rolled his eyes, leaning down to give him a chaste peck before pulling away once more. "I guess I do love a bastard. Now for the last time. Hold still."

[toddlazarski]

Wioletta’s Taste of Poland

Shepherd Express

For a city with the fourth highest Polish American population in the country, a town where I know of not one, but three unrelated people with the surname “Lazarski,” Milwaukee has a serious pierogi shortage. Look no further than Wioletta’s auspicious opening weekend earlier this month, where there was a run on Polska market fare like it was toilet paper in March ‘20. They sold 1500 pounds of meat in three days. Not to mention everything else. Walking in on day four of business operations I was met by apologies, empty shelves, and reduced to pity buying nothing but some cream-filled Caramelo-like chocolate indulgences that made me reschedule a looming dentist appointment so that I could get in one more week of scrubbing. Apparently having one Polish restaurant, Polonez, and one Polish deli, A&J, isn’t cutting it by way of demand. 

Now we have Wioletta’s, from husband-and-wife team Adam and Wioletta Bartoszek, who both hail from the area around Lodz, Poland’s third-largest city. Wioletta, a trained chef, ran deli shops in Warsaw, Poland’s largest city, before moving to the U.S. Now, the couple’s Howell-and-Howard outpost sits on a dated but promising business corridor that many Milwaukeeans still only consider as the last few blocks before you reach the airport to leave Milwaukee. 

Next to the venerable greasy spoon Copper Kitchen and across from the unfortunately-shuttered Soup Otzie’s, a feel so spunky and bright feels refreshingly out of place, in a way the southside neighborhood likely hasn’t seen since the opening of Hawthorne Coffee in 2013. Such a spiffy rehab of a long-vacant True Value might hint at the area’s untapped potential, in a scope outpriced Bay Viewers and prospective Bay Viewers may start to realize if they just keep going a bit, keep matriculating, further south.   

Restocked by day five, picked over again by day 10, Wioletta’s shelves seemed to be finding their stock groove by about the middle of week two of operations, especially on a pre-rush morning. Here, in front of the baked goods case, you might stop and think donuts are but an easy way to let yourself off the hook, to give up on the day before it starts. But then you might think, these are not donuts, they are paczki. Which you will most likely mispronounce at the counter. But it is all a learning opportunity, also a chance to take one of the pillowy frosted plum or pudding or raspberry pockets down the street to pair with a fresh pour over from Hawthorne, in a combo making for the best possible start to a morning under the planes in Town of Lake. 

Also there are fresh rolls, beautiful still-warm soft white beds that act as canvas for the butcher case’s bounty of multiple hams, irresponsibly buttery smoked turkey, roasted rolled bacon with spices (a bold cold cut that makes one wonder on the pig’s tender side), and aggressively overgrown kielbasa that resemble shriveled little league bats. The Weselna, or wedding sausage, looks like a formidable implement of self-protection. Double smoked, as fragrant and fatty as an offensive lineman, it seems meant to be sliced and dunked in mustard and binged while watching whatever is the afternoon game.    

Pierogies, frozen, ship from Alexandra’s in Chicago, and span the flavor gamut between potato and cheese to meat to kraut to mushroom to sweet cheese—all the indigestion-inducing comfort fare corners are covered. Fried or boiled, your home is set to be filled with the smells and feels of grandma’s house, of holiday time when you want to eat as fortification against winter and as reward, for, well, maybe just living. Topped with fried onions, possibly sour cream, these little protein delivery devices represent at least one healthy reason to need to sleep in a different room from your significant other for a night.     

Likewise, take heed of the fresh Polish sausage, when you can, continuous Facebook page checks necessary it seems, at least for the time being. The slick links assert their stinky personality from the time they get positioned on the front seat of your car, and really start commandeering olfactory matters if they get more than a few hours in your fridge. A batch recently made for an ideal grill season opening day, smoke plumes billowing over the neighborhood like it was a religious ceremony, links sizzling and ready to be paired with one of the aforementioned rolls, some kraut, some Koop’s, and whichever beer was closest and coldest. An extra thick casing begs for a hot grill sear, the snap countering yieldy insides that are redolent of marjoram and garlicky Eastern European soul.     

The latter is impossible to forget at Wioletta’s. A corner is dedicated to the giftshop-like doling of Polska t-shirts, sweatpants, doodads of the sort you usually grab at the airport in a last ditch effort for a present or to remember a visited land. A glimpse of the white eagle, the red and white, seems to mean something different these days though, stirring a kind of nostalgia and belief beyond thoughts of Riverwest’s Polish Falcon bar. Of course, as a logo, it looks good, regal and bold and nobly able. But, really, the country has a newly prominent place in the geopolitical sphere, situated on the front lines of whatever you can call the current devastating calamity of Ukraine. Via an email interview Adam spoke not only of hope for “more Polish businesses” and advocating for “the younger generation to help keep the heritage and traditions alive,” but of partnering with the Polish Community Center for collections for families taking in refugees. Whether pierogies or sausages are in stock, whether you know where to begin with the sprawling smorgasbord of seasonings and pickled things that time and curiosity will certainly reward, whether you have the sweet tooth or enough kids to keep pace with the glut of sugary temptings, it clearly seems the time to celebrate our city’s, and the world’s, Polish heritage.  

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TGIF: ROUNDUP FOR AUGUST 21, 2020

As the school season begins, read our most popular article for the year - and one that is still relevant - by Heidi Wong, College Ministry Director at Exilic Church in New York City: An Open Letter to College Students Affected by COVID-19.

We have a new Instagram aesthetic and a simpler way to access our articles via the link in our bio. Over on Twitter, we link to our new content and throwback articles daily. But the best way to never miss out is to subscribe to our weekly newsletter.

To better equip and encourage the online efforts of our churches, I started an Asian American Worship Leaders Facebook group. I invite you to come and check us out. Do you have a link or article to share? Find me on Twitter or Instagram.

ARTICLES FROM AROUND THE WEB

1. Brett McCracken: Are Churches Losing the Battle to Form Christians?

“In the age of Google, there will always be better preaching and better worship music just a click away. But such online “content”—yes, even from TGC—can never replace church, and pastors must think carefully about why.”

2. Abigail Dodds: Woe Is Me: The Sin of Self-Pity and How to Be Free

It’s only when we turn our eyes to Christ and through him behold the incomparable love of our Father that our self-pity will shrivel and die — finally shown to be the imposter it really is in the light of God’s powerful pity, his decisive grace, and his sacrificial love.

3. John Lee: Who Are the Most Generous? Not Who You’d Expect.

“The wonder of salvation is that God did not have to save fallen people. He chose to save through his own sacrifice, a father’s loss and a son’s life. Generosity flows down to us.”

BOOKS, PODCASTS, MUSIC, AND MORE

1. Monergism: Download the Entire Monergism eBook Library

Monergism promotes only content that is consistent with historically reformed theology, and their entire free eBook library with over 600 titles can now be downloaded with a single click. For a smaller start, you can browse their library.

2. All Nations Community Church: My Worth is Not in What I Own

Drums are tasteful and right in the pocket, female vocals fit the song perfectly, and a surprisingly powerful bridge brings it all together.

3. Aaron Lee: Miscellaneous

Book reviews: Matthew (Guided Meditation) by Alabaster and IVP, John (Guided Meditation) by Alabaster and IVP, On Beauty and Faith by Alabaster, The Ascension of Christ by Patrick Schreiner, Christ and Calamity by Harold L. Senkbeil, and Pages from a Preacher’s Notebook by John Stott. Our TGIF playlist is available on Spotify. Join my Asian American Worship Leaders Facebook group.

FEATURED THIS WEEK ON SOLA NETWORK

1. Wayne Hu: Loving Our Kids in this Coronavirus and School Season

“A Gospel-centered home is one where everyone is constantly reconciling every day through the power of the gospel.”

2. Young W. Yi: What Should Christians Do About Cancel Culture?

“In Christ Jesus and through His sacrifice, we are no longer condemned by God because He died for both our private and public sins.”

3. David J. Schuman: What to Do When You're Afraid

“The next time you feel fear welling up inside, pause and remind yourself of the power and faithfulness of God.”

4. TGIF: Roundup for August 14, 2020

In case you missed it: Black and Hispanic Churchgoers Concerned About Safety of In-Person Services / Planning for the Fall with Covid-19 (and Taylor Swift) / An Encouragement for Every Christian to Read

General disclaimer: Our link roundups are not endorsements of the positions or lives of the authors.