Chapter Text
A genuine query or a cruel taunt?
Aziraphale barely had time to register the question before the door closed, lock clicking sharply, sealing him back in the freezing dark. Regardless, the message was clear.
How desperate are you?
The words repeated over and over in his head as the cold closed in around him. Reducing his existence to nothing but numb limbs, uncontrollable shaking and clouded breath.
Aziraphale longed for his wings. Mourned them.
He would have wrapped the glorious white shields around himself, creating a new world within a warm, feathered cocoon.
But they were the first to go. Clipped, the moment he was dragged into Hell.
The memory of a sharp blade slicing through muscle and bone. Fire scorching, sealing the open wounds. They hadn’t even bothered to remove his shirt, searing the fabric into his skin while his screams echoed off the stone.
He wondered darkly where they were now – his beautiful, majestic wings. Did they sit upon some demon’s wall as a trophy? Or were the merely tossed to the hellhounds for their next meal?
The throbbing in Aziraphale’s shoulder blades seemed to flare at the thought and he shifted uncomfortably. The pain was duller now, but would likely never completely disappear. A constant reminder of how far he has fallen.
And the cold had somehow become worse.
It was a sentient being – one that had seen him acquire his blanket and decided to compensate for the extra layer. If it could even be called a blanket. Just a threaded piece of thin, rough material, barely big enough to cover all his body when he balled himself up.
Desperation was a bitter taste in his mouth. He’d traded his dignity for comfort so easily. And honestly, was ready to do it again. He wasn’t made for pain and misery; he was a being of hope, purity and light.
But now his light had dulled, his purity fraying like the blanket around his shoulders. Hope seemed like a distant memory.
…
By the time the demon returned, Aziraphale could barely feel anything.
His skin stung with a thousand tiny needles; lungs burned with each icy breath. He had positioned himself directly in front of the doorway, prepared to pay any price to be released from this icy Hell.
The demon almost looked surprised to find the angel at his feet the moment the heavy door creaked open. But, as always, it was fleeting, quickly replaced by that casual, infuriatingly confident smirk, like he had known the outcome well before he even asked the question.
This time, Aziraphale didn’t hesitate.
He rose to his feet, clutching the blanket around himself, his fingers locked in fisted positions he was sure he’d never be able to uncurl. Numb feet stumbled clumsily as he stepped across the icy floor, falling into the demon’s heat without a second thought.
He pressed his fully body against him. There was no room in his mind for self-respect or anxiety. Just a singular, shameless desire to be warm.
“Greedy angel,” the demon chuckled, voice rumbling in Aziraphale’s ear.
Let him taunt. Aziraphale didn’t care. This wasn’t sin, it was survival.
The demon wrapped his arms around him. Lower this time, holding him close, until the angel’s muscles stopped spasming and his laboured breathing calmed. Aziraphale could feel the steady rise and fall of the demon’s chest, coinciding with warm gusts of air over the side of his face. He wondered feebly whether it was a purposeful move to help thaw him or merely a trick of his frostbitten mind.
The moment the angel began to loosen, the demon moved, wordlessly twisting out of the embrace to guide them out into the hallway. He didn’t need a literal answer. The angel’s actions had spoken loudly enough.
Aziraphale gasped softly as he took his first shaky step over the threshold. Warm air washed over him like a waterfall and he squinted under the dull lights that lined the long hallway.
They didn’t travel far. Only a few doors up into a new room.
It was a bathroom of sorts, with a large black tub in the centre, already filled with hot, steaming water. The heat of the room was almost stifling, and the preprepared bath a sobering reminder that the demon was already aware the angel would give in.
Aziraphale looked sideways at the demon, uncertainty written all over his face.
“If you want to be out, you need to be clean,” he stated cooly.
What will you give, Angel?
Aziraphale swallowed hard as the demon began to help him remove his clothes, hands shaking less from the residual effects of his freezing prison and more from something else now.
He choked back a small noise of distress as his shirt was pulled off his shoulders, the fabric still partially welded to the healing wounds on his back, threads pulling at the skin uncomfortably.
The demon then helped him into the tub, steadying him as he sunk down into the searing hot water.
His frozen limbs screamed in both protest and relief as they defrosted, the sensation dizzying and comforting at the same time. And for a moment, despite the awkwardness of being assisted, and the looming presence of the demon, he allowed himself to relax.
Then he felt movement behind him.
Aziraphale went rigid as he felt the water move, bare legs sliding either side as the demon settled down into the bath behind him, sponge in hand. Shock froze him. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Nothing more than a statue in a fountain.
That is, until a sponge full of water was dumped over his head, causing him to gasp, inhaling half of it into his lungs.
The demon teased, as Aziraphale coughed uncontrollably.
“Don’t forget to breathe, Angel.”
He worked methodically, if not a little rough.
Aziraphale winced as he washed the blood from the angel’s messy curls, fingers tugging out knots, his head wound still quite tender. He tried to concentrate on the smell of the soap and the warmth of the water. The features of the bathroom – snake-like sconces around the walls and the intricate golden vine frame surrounding the mirror over the basin.
Anything to dissociate from the process at hand.
The demon paused when he reached the wounds on his back. Aziraphale braced himself as he felt a hand come to rest near one of his shoulder blades. But the demon didn’t do anything. The water stilled, and he just seemed to look at them for a long time.
It wasn’t until the angel turned his head slightly that he broke from his reverie, running the sponge over the burns with a little more vigour than necessary before moving on.
Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut, bowed his head, and inhaled.
Don’t forget to breathe, Angel.
Perhaps it was a desperate attempt at control. Perhaps it was simply fear. But Aziraphale held his breath. He held it until his head felt light. Until his lungs began to burn and his throat felt tight.
He held it until stars began to bloom behind his eyelids –
The water sloshed.
The demon was moving, getting out. Aziraphale could hear the soft slap of wet feet on stone. He finally exhaled, blinking a few times as he waited for his vision to return.
Only to see him now climbing back in… in front of him.
Aziraphale turned his head so fast he thought he’d given himself whiplash.
“Oh, don’t be so coy. You just spent the last ten minutes between my thighs,” he jibbed, pushing Aziraphale’s legs apart and setting himself in place. A mirror of their previous position. “My turn,” he added, holding the sponge over his shoulder.
Aziraphale didn’t know if this was better or worse. He didn’t know where to look, what to do.
Fingers trembling, terrified of making a mistake, he chose to copy the demon’s process. Though he worked with far more care than what had been offered him.
This felt unfair. Now he was being forced to look. Forced to pay attention to what he was doing. An unwilling participant in this twisted parody of intimacy.
His hand stilled as the demon bowed his head, giving Aziraphale more access to the back of his neck. He stared at the lightly freckled skin, fingers tightening around the sponge reflexively.
What would it take for him to wrap his hands around the demon’s neck and squeeze? To use all his strength to force him forward, push his head under the water and hold him there until-
"Strangulation or drowning?”
The demon’s voice cut through his reverie like a knife, and Aziraphale snatched his hand back.
“Which one are you contemplating, Angel?” he asked. “Both, perhaps?”
The amusement in his voice was chilling. This demon sat before him, somehow knowing full well the extent of Aziraphale’s dark thoughts, and didn’t feel threatened in the slightest.
He turned his head a fraction, looking back at the angel out of his periphery.
“First greed, now wrath? Not very angelic of you,” he taunted, dryly. “You can try, if you like?” His voice dropped, low, sinister. “But make sure you finish the job, because there are far worse punishments than a cold room in this place.”
His final words hung in the air like a blade waiting to drop.
When Aziraphale didn’t move, the demon spun, sloshing water over the edge of the tub to stare at him directly. The intensity of his gaze was suffocating, paralysing.
Aziraphale flinched and leaned back, putting what distance he could between them. But the demon slid closer, running his hands along the edges of the tub until the angel was boxed in, bodies only inches apart.
Aziraphale felt utterly exposed, extremely vulnerable. The hot burn of tears welled behind his eyes. He blinked, trying to force them back.
The demon smirked.
“Good boy,” he cooed mockingly, shifting just as quickly away, sending water everywhere as he climbed out.
Aziraphale breathed heavily through his nose, eyes stinging. His lack of control over the situation, his own body, the complete lack of autonomy, was terrifying.
The demon had dried and dressed himself in one sharp snap, but waited patiently at the side of the tub, towel in hand for the angel. More humiliation. A demonstration that this entire performance could have been negated with a simple miracle.
The demon looked completely unapologetic about it.
Aziraphale grabbed the towel hastily, choosing to forgo drying and simply use it to cover himself as he climbed clumsily out of the tub. The demon scoffed, rolling his eyes, and clicking his fingers.
Prison attire. Grey shirt and sweatpants. The clothes held none of the character or flamboyance of his old outfits. No buttons or layers or bowties. Much like the blanket, the material felt rough, and a little scratchy.
Again, a little more of the angel he once was had been stripped away.
...
He was led to another room, directly across the hall.
This one, thankfully, had a far more pleasant temperature, but the sight still made him anxious.
It appeared to be a bedroom, with a rickety-looking single bed against a back wall and not much else, save a small rug on the floor. There was a lone sconce on the wall above the bed, casting a low light over the room that didn’t quite reach the edges.
It was too domestic. A prison cell masquerading as a safe haven.
“This is yours. See how I spoil you, Angel?” the demons voice sounded from just over his shoulder, a hand pressing on his lower back to push him further into the room. “Now rest.”
And with that, the door thudded shut, followed by the familiar click of a lock.