⚠️TW: GORE AND SELF-HARM⚠️
The one thing they don't tell you about falling, is it comes with the compulsion to destroy.
The one thing Crowley didn't warn Aziraphale about was that sometimes the thing you crave destroying is yourself.
It's been three days since the fall, and Aziraphale hasn't found the strength to change his name. He cannot bear to spread his scorched, ruined wings. The wings that had been broken by Gabriel before Aziraphale was thrown from heaven.
Adding insult to injury, Aziraphale thought bitterly as he stumbled into the kitchen. In the days since the fall, Crowley had been tending to Aziraphale, and suddenly Aziraphale understood why the redhead acted as if he felt guilty whenever Aziraphale tried to care for him. Aziraphale now felt that same guilt.
I'm a failure. I don't deserve love or mercy. Don't touch me. Don't touch me.
It nauseated him to let Crowley tend to him, but for a few days he'd been too weak to stop him. Aziraphale knew that Crowley just wanted to help, just wanted him to go back to normal, but he didn't know what normal was anymore.
Hearing giggling from outside, Aziraphale curiously looked out the window.
A child sat on the sidewalk, playing one of those children's game that seemed far too dark for children. This particular game involved the child rapidly stabbing a pencil between their outstretched fingers, gradually increasing speed along with a song.
"I have all my fingers, the knife goes chop chop chop..."
Aziraphale watched, biting his tongue. He didn't realize, until he tasted blood in his mouth, what it was that he craved. A vision flashed through his mind of the child playing the same game, but with a real knife.
His hands began to move on their own. Though the movement was involuntary, Aziraphale didn't care to stop it. Into the drawer. Closed around the handle. Brought it up.
The sight of the blood, and the severed appendages, filled Aziraphale with a sickening sense of glee. He raised the heavy cleaver again, laughing like a madman. Down and down and down, he continued, chopping off the two remaining fingers, and then chunks of his hand. And then what was left of the hand. And then parts of his arm.
Aziraphale froze, feeling dizzy and sick to his stomach, completely disgusted by the accompanying sense of satisfaction.
"Oh... oh my... what... what have I done...?"
He'd barely said the words when he hit the ground, and everything went black.
The next thing Aziraphale was aware of was something soft, a horrible ache in his arm, and something holding the opposite hand.
He shot awake, startled by the sudden memory. "What the hell have I done?!"
Crowley jumped, startled. "Zira! Zira, calm down. You need to stay calm, okay? You're hurt really bad..."
Aziraphale looked down at his heavily bandaged arm. Or rather, what was left of it. "I... I did this..."
Crowley looked devastated. "I know... I'm so sorry... I shouldn't have left you alone so soon after you fell... I... I shouldn't have..."
"You wouldn't have been able to stop me," Aziraphale mumbled with grim certainty. "I would have hurt you..."
Crowley sighed. "You've been out for almost a whole day. I can't heal something like that, so I had to take you to a human hospital, but I brought you home as soon as I was sure you'd be alright..."
Aziraphale wasn't listening. In just a few days, he'd had his wings broken, fallen from heaven, cut off his own hand, and apparently completely lost his mind.
I really am a failure, he thought. I'm worthless.
I don't deserve love, or mercy.
He slowly pulled his hand free of Crowley's, despair gathering in his eyes.