Chapter Text
Aziraphale was not liking Hell. He supposed that was the point. The odor was appalling, a stench from altogether too many bodies smushed together in one place with altogether too little soap. He doubted any demons even knew what “hygiene” meant. It was damp and dark, oppressive in its cramped feeling, with viscous fluid dripping from the stained ceiling at odd intervals. Everyone leered when he passed by. Aside from that, he’d been (rather rudely) kidnapped, and Hastur had not been gentle with dragging him. Or with the pole he knocked him out with. Every time he’d tried to speak as he’d been hauled through Hell, Hastur had given him a few more knocks for fun, and his body was aching.
And, plainly speaking, Aziraphale didn’t like the idea of this unfriendly bunch being “Crowley’s people”, so to speak. He’d always worried for him and feared what Hell might do had they discovered The Arrangement, but now he was seeing it play out right before him and he was having trouble keeping a check on his feelings.
They’d bound at the wrists and dragged him into a mouldering room, mostly empty aside from a bathtub behind him, and odd bleachers and Beelzebub’s throne in front. The tiles covering the walls were patchy at best, and the lights were flickering. Demons pressed up against a window on one side to catch a glimpse of the trial, their hushed conversation quieting as soon as he walked in. Beelzebub sat across from him, leisurely slouching in their throne, looking bored already. Hastur and a demon named Dagon flanked her.
Despite it being part of the plan, he was still trying to shake off the fear at seeing Crowley-as-him bound and gagged, screaming warnings behind the cloth and being dragged away right in front of him. He didn’t think any amount of preparation would have made him okay with that. He dearly hoped Crowley would be all right.
Well, if he and Crowley’s plan succeeded, neither Heaven or Hell would ever come near Crowley again. Or not for a few hundred years, at least. And if they did, Aziraphale would deal with them when the time came.
In the meantime, Aziraphale was attempting to navigate this sham of a trial with as much grace as possible. They didn’t even have a defense attorney! The idea of these three executing Crowley --demons chanting his guilt from the sidelines when they didn’t have the right to judge--Aziraphale could barely stand it. He found it hard to understand how Crowley--wonderful, brave, kind Crowley--could have come out of a stinking cesspool like this. It was the very opposite of his nature.
At least it would be quick; Heaven’s trials really could drag on. He had the feeling he would be the one to return to Earth more quickly.
“What’s it going to be? An eternity in the deepest pit?” Aziraphale asked. He tried to be as nonchalant as possible. He didn’t know if he could be quite as suave as Crowley, but centuries of watching and admiring him had to pay off somehow.
“No, we’re going to do something even worse—letting the punishment fit the crime.” Hastur bared his teeth in the mockery of a grin that stretched the sores on his cheek unpleasantly. His expression was satisfied for Aziraphale’s liking—the idea of Crowley working with Hastur regularly, someone pleased to see him die so horrifically, has him gritting his teeth.
There was a split second of wondering how they would get the Holy Water.
Then Michael walked in.
The crowd behind him gasped.
“The archangel Michael,” Aziraphale carefully masked his betrayal. “That’s… unlikely.” He’d predicted they’d get Holy Water somehow, but for a high-ranking Angel to supply it to Hell was unprecedented. And for it to be Michael… that was, well. Low.
“Cooperation with our old enemies,” Dagon smiles. It’s not a pleasant one. Aziraphale burned at the hypocrisy. He and Crowley hadn’t done much worse.
“Well, white wings, you brought the stuff?” asked Hastur.
“I did. I’ll be back to collect it.” She gave him a cool look.
“Well, I think perhaps you might want to do the honors. I’ve seen what that stuff can do.” Hastur said nervously. Michael nodded, beginning to pour the Holy Water into the tub. The room involuntarily falls into a hush, the dead silence hanging heavily over the crowd.
(Aziraphale’s mind reminds him that this is how Crowley could have died; trapped by enemies on all sides, painfully, and alone. He tries to push it out of mind, feeling sick.)
“Wait,” said Dagon. Her voice rings out like a shot in the quiet. Slowly, Aziraphale turns to face her; Beelzebub and Hastur also shoot her a questioning look. She’s staring Aziraphale down, and he doesn’t like her expression.
He thinks he remembers Dagon, now: Dagon, Lord Of The Files, Master Of Madness, Under-Duke Of The Seventh Torment. He’d heard stories about her, from the Great War and a little after, some from Crowley, some whispered from other angels. Fallen kings whose heads were displayed in her temples, a few things about people’s hands and feet being chopped off, general lording over humans through violence. Nowadays, she was a lord of bureaucracy. Crowley had complained of her bothering him about paperwork on more than one occasion, and now it seemed she was getting her revenge.
“I don’t think his punishment is quite fair,” drawled Dagon, taking a step towards Aziraphale. He tries not to fidget. “Murder through holy water is not his only crime. He stopped our final, glorious battle against the forces of Heaven, he’s been lying and betraying Hell for thousands of years, fraternizing with an Angel, and--” her expression darkens-- “he never properly filled out any paperwork in his 6,000 year career. For his long list of crimes, simple death by holy water is much too… short a punishment.”
The jeering of demons behind Aziraphale spikes. He didn’t think Crowley’s attitude about paperwork had gone down very well in Hell. Aziraphale feels like he’s had a bucket of cold water thrown onto him, and he hasn’t even gotten in the bath yet. That would be preferable to whatever Dagon wants from him. Without meaning to, he takes a sharp inhale, which doesn’t escape Beelzebub’s notice. She grins, too, and he strains to keep his expression cool behind the glasses.
Damn it, Crowley, Aziraphale thought. Why does your pettiness have to come back to haunt me now? Not that he doesn’t love that particular brand of uncooperativeness when it’s not aimed at him, but. Details. He almost wanted to be angry at Crowley, but he knew it wasn’t really his fault.
“What do you want me to do,” Aziraphale drawls, despite his anxiety. “A thousand years’ worth of paperwork?”
He is ignored.
“Lord Beelzebub,” Dagon bows slightly. “Would your Most Merciless Disgrace allow me to enact my own additional punishment to the accused before the execution commences?”
The decision only takes Beelzebub a second.
“Do whatever you want,” she agrees.
…
Crowley registered waking up in a chair, bound to its arms with coarse rope. At least it had allowed him to sit back while Gabriel went through his disparagement of Aziraphale, which was majorly pissing him off. He tried to keep his expression calmer than he felt. He thought he was managing icily furious quite nicely.
With it’s open, glass-walled rooms and caged-in feeling, Heaven gave off just as oppressive a feeling as Hell. It just went about it slightly differently. He could feel an odd sort of weight, of discord maybe, in Heaven; like a vibration so strong you could feel it through your whole body, but you were out of tune from the music so it was unpleasant and grating. It had been so long, he’d nearly forgotten what Heaven was like, but he thought some deep part of him remembered this feeling; it was both alien and familiar, and nothing like Earth. Heaven and Hell were more similar than they probably wanted to acknowledge. There was a strange irony in it.
He wasn’t sure how long he had been out for, but the transformation still felt strong, so he figured that at least was fine. At this point he just kind of wanted to get this over with. Gabriel’s prattling was insufferable.
Crowley had always hated Gabriel in particular. He didn’t think God herself had decided all the fallen, no, in the old days there had been others who’d created the Fallen, too. Decided who would be cast out of Heaven. Gabriel had been one of them. He’d always suspected that Gabriel had been the one who’d sent him away. He didn’t always regret falling, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t loathe Gabriel for being the one to curse him to it.
“Don’t—“ Gabriel was saying, “Talk to me about the greater good, sunshine. I’m the Archangel fucking Gabriel. The greater good was, we were finally going to settle things between us and the opposition once and for all.”
Politely, Crowley-as-Aziraphale smiles thinly and says, “I don’t suppose I can persuade you to reconsider? We’re meant to be the good guys, for heaven's sake!” Aziraphale was always gracious, always polite; he kept a straighter spine than all these other Angels put together. Crowley knew Aziraphale would be brave and unflinching in the face of divine punishment. His bravery was one of the many things Crowley loved about him.
“Well, for heaven's sake, we are meant to make examples out of traitors. So,” Gabriel gestures. “Into the flame.”
“Right. Well. Lovely knowing you all,” he smiled wanly. “May we meet on a better occasion.”
“Shut your stupid mouth, and die already.” Crowley felt his blood boil.
How could they just--just expect Aziraphale to walk straight into the fire like that? To meekly accept his punishment even when it’s not deserved, just because it comes from a position of authority? To exert this kind of manipulative control over him, make him believe that his unfair treatment was correct? To believe that they had the right to just kill his angel? But, Crowley knows Aziraphale would do it. He would walk into the fire with grace and dignity, because, at his heart, that’s what Aziraphale was made of. He was forgiving and kind to the end and the kind of person all Angels should be, and he would do it.
So, Crowley does.
And watches with delight as Sandalphon, Gabriel and Uriel’s faces melt from satisfaction into dawning horror. With no small amount of glee, Crowley breaks character a little bit, rolling his neck with a satisfying crack. He grinned. Time to scare the Hell out of these bastards.
…
“Hmm… what to do, what to do,” Dagon mused. “A breaking wheel? An iron chair? The rack is always a classic.”
Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure what those were, but he was quite sure he didn’t want to find out. Hell, after all, was well known for it’s torture: it was kind of their job.
He’d known that his job would likely be the harder when he’d suggested this plan to Crowley. He’d known that fooling Hell had a higher chance of going wrong, and that they might punish him more harshly than Heaven would. The prophecy had, after all, only mentioned fire; Holy Water was never specified, or any water at all. He hadn’t mentioned anything to Crowley, because it was still their best shot and he’d rather carry the brunt of whatever was coming for them. But whatever Dagon wanted, it didn’t seem like anything he could expect.
He’d been moved to a different room. It was a little like an arena, though it wasn’t open on the top and was smaller and more enclosed. Just like everything in hell, it was a dark grey-black. Not exactly the most relaxing atmosphere. He’d been strapped down to a cold metal table, almost surgical in its appearance, and he weakly pulled at the straps keeping him tied down, not for lack of trying.
Dagon and the demon accompioning her had taken the liberty of roughing him up on the way there, and he was sporting a split lip and tender ribs because of it. He thought there might be a trickle of blood coming out of his nose where he’d been punched, but he couldn’t reach up to check. He’d given them a hard time strapping him in. He didn’t regret it. Regardless of the end result, he wouldn’t go down easy.
He dearly hoped that Dagon would be quick and they could move on to the Holy Water. If their ruse failed, it would mean very bad things for Crowley. He was certain they could fool Heaven; they wouldn’t expect subterfuge or think they could be tricked. But if they found out he wasn’t really Crowley… they’d find the real Crowley and execute him.
Also, it would mean very bad things for Aziraphale down here in the immediate future. Couldn’t forget that part.
“We hear down here that you’ve become fond of human food and drink.” Dagon began. Aziraphale found the attempt at pre-torture back-and-forth quite tiring.
“Aren’t I supposed to be promoting vices? I’m a demon, after all,” said Aziraphale.
“Spot on, aren’t you,” she bared her teeth. “I’ll give you gluttony. You're going to beg me to stop.”
The line was a little cliche, but he supposed it did the job of stakes-raising banter; Aziraphale felt his anxiety spiking as he realized more and more just how trapped he was, without hope of aid or rescue. Nevertheless, Aziraphale scoffed. Crowley wouldn’t let himself be intimidated into submission by authority or petty threats.
That had always been much more Aziraphale’s style.
A demon Aziraphale couldn’t see behind him lowered his chair, so he was at an incline looking up, but his feet were raised above his head. He felt terribly vulnerable, lying back.
“Oh, I doubt that,” he managed weakly. He pressed Crowley’s lips into a tight smile, though his eyes were wide behind his glasses. Dagon produced a pitcher, much like the one Michael had held, and walked slowly over to stand above Aziraphale. She produced a rag, too, darkly colored; he couldn’t tell if it was originally lighter and then was stained or if it was always black, but the smell indicated the latter. Aziraphale realized what she was about to do.
“Wait, I don’t think this is really-” She placed the rag over his mouth and nose. He froze in fear.
There was a widespread myth that Angels didn’t have to breathe. Well, their angelic forms don’t need to, of course, but Earthly forms were different; while tougher than humans, they weren’t impervious: lungs full of water would discorporate them as surely as it would a human.
He’d been discorporated by drowning, once, way back in the 13th century. It’d been bad, then, but at least it was quick; he’d dashed his head on a rock when he fell into the water, so he hadn’t been conscious for most of it. He’d been reprimanded by Gabriel for losing his body in such a foolish manner. He’d brushed it off, had never spoken about it with anyone, but it still took decades for him to stop being nervous around the ocean. He still didn’t visit it; not wanting to risk anything like the first accident.
This was worse.
It wasn’t water, it wasn’t alcohol, though it smelled like it, it was something else that was thicker-- he tried to hold out, hold his breath as she poured it on his face and into his nose-- but she landed a blow on his ribs, right where he’d been struck before and he gasped a breath despite himself-- fluid--running in through his nose and filling his mouth-- and then he couldn’t--think-- he might have cried out--
oh god someone helpmeohgodohgod--someone--i’m drowning--godplease--Crowley-- Crowleyhelpmeohgodidon’twanttodie-- please--
He was gasping for air, drowning, no, burning alive--it burned in his lungs, he was choking on it, and this must be what Hellfire feels like, this must be what it’s like to die forever-- he was writhing, trying to rip his face away in his seat but he was held still-- help--
She stopped pouring for a moment. He registered Dagon talking, a smug,“You don’t like that much, now do you, Master Crowley,” and all he could register was-- was Crowley. He felt overwhelmed suddenly, even more than he was before, at the thought of him; he didn’t know if the deep ache in his chest was good or bad, but he blinked his watering eyes harshly to keep from crying and tried to focus on it. He was alright. He would be alright. He gritted his teeth to brace himself.
She began to tip the pitcher, and stopped short suddenly. He stared up at her in confusion, breath caught in his throat. She leaned forward suddenly, too close, nose almost touching his neck. Her breath smelled of dead fish, hot and almost sticky on his skin.
“You… you smell of Angel,” she gurgled. He never knew a gurgle could be so intimidating. Damn it all.
“Well, that’d be the--uh--”
“You were with your little boyfriend before they caught you, I hear,” she added gleefully. “Disgusting enough, you being with him, but enough to get all this scent on you?” She made a face, leaning back.
“I don’t--” he broke off into rattling coughs, gasping. “I don’t… really mind it.” he tried. She screwed up her face even more.
“You won’t like this: I hear they’re going to put ‘im in Hellfire up in Heaven. Too bad we don’t get to see that. But you’ll both be done soon enough. And just-- just shut up, for Satan’s sake.”
And she began pouring again.
helpme--stop--plea--stopstopstopstopstopstopican’ttakeit--stOPSTOPSTOP--
It went on for what felt like days but could have been anything from years to minutes to hours. If he were human, he would have died already, but Angel bodies were withstand quite a bit more than a mortal beings’ could. As it was, it was just prolonging Aziraphale’s pain.
Again, he soaked cloth was ripped from his nose for a glorious moment, and he was shaking, coughing, barely lucid as he laid slack. Dagon’s face swam into his vision. Her grin was almost too wide for her face. He gazed silently up at her, as resolute as he could be while coughing rattlingly and slightly drooling. His arms and legs ached from where he'd strained at the restraints.
“You know what I said, Master Crowley,” she trilled. “That you’d beg me. You can, you know; being silent is no fun.”
She went to tip the pitcher again, and despite himself, he flinched a little.
“Ooh, I know what that means,” she said. “All you have to do is say ‘Please, stop, your Disgrace. Is that so hard? Pay us lowly demons down in Hell some respect after flaunting your status on Earth for a couple thousand years?"
Aziraphale sneered, then spat in her face.
It might be a sin, but he still had his pride.
…
Crowley was sitting on a park bench, thinking about Aziraphale. They were not pleasant thoughts of future plans, not even mildly irritated ones, like when they’d just had a spat but he knew they’d make it up sooner or later. They weren’t even the ones that visited him in his lonelier moments, an aching guilty pleasure of what could be. No, these thoughts were concerned.
Where the hell was he? He should have been done by now. Crowley wanted to tell him about the spitting Hellfire, and ask him if he thought it was too much. He was sure Aziraphale would find it humorous, if he were actually there. But the spot next to him on the bench remained inexplicably empty.
He didn’t know exactly how much time the transformation had left, and he wasn’t keen on pushing their luck.
You may be wondering how Crowley and Aziraphale turned into one another at all. It was quite simple, really.
Well, it wasn’t a true and full transformation—otherwise, the Hellfire and Holy Water could have truly given them some trouble. No, Crowley could only really switch physically between his human(ish) and snake forms. If he could change other aspects of his body at will, (in a lasting manner, forming a dog’s head for a brief moment was easy enough), then he would have changed his eyes long ago. Or at least during the 14th century; it would have saved him a lot of trouble.
Instead, it was a bit of a minor miracle, one that only Aziraphale and Crowley could have thought up. (Though, Aziraphale was the one to initially propose it. He was always keen on plans.) The Plan (capital for emphasis) was a good one. Truth was, they were the only angel and demon to have spent enough time with one another to work out the mechanics of the switch.
Miracles are performed through pushing some of your angelic or demonic energy into an object or the world at large, and forcing them to change to your will. To become each other, Aziraphale and Crowley just had to touch and perform a miracle on one another, though only halfway. Really trying to change one another could have destroyed each others’ bodies, especially Crowley; demonic bodies don’t take being charged with Holy energy very well. (See: effects of Holy Water.) Instead, they did just enough to last for their respective trials, which only caused a particularly bad case of pins and needles. The effect of the Angelic of the Demon energy pushed onto them also masked their natural “scent” from Heaven or Hell respectively, which was what would sell the illusion.
Crowley was getting antsy on his bench, and he didn’t know if the crawling feeling was just from the transformation. Aziraphale should have been back by now, where they could safely reverse the miracle and push the energy back to their respective owners. It had been three hours. Aziraphale didn’t like to keep him waiting. It wasn’t right.
Then, he felt it, a thrum in the transformation. Not a tear, but a strain, like Aziraphale was trying his best to hold on to the concentration needed to maintain it but struggling. The shudder worked its way up his spine, leaving his whole body prickling unpleasantly. To Crowley, it was a call for help.
Something had gone wrong.
He needed to go back to Hell.