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Chapter Text

It was a pleasant day in St. James Park as Aziraphale stood on the small walking bridge over the duck pond, watching the happy water birds bob about and pluck up the bread he tossed to them. They were too well-fed to fight each other over it, but all the same, Aziraphale always made sure he had plenty to go around.

There was a damp chill in the air that day, which regrettably made his recently wounded shoulder ache and he refrained from reaching up to massage it. It had only been two weeks since the unfortunate incident, and he still found himself unable to quite forget everything that had happened. He felt like it shouldn't have bothered him as much as it did—after all, it wasn't the first time he'd gotten injured, or even the first time he'd gotten injured badly. And really, he didn't even remember the worst of it. He thought it was perhaps more the look in Crowley's eyes after the fact that told him just how bad it had been and how lucky he was to have the demon as a friend as he was sure he certainly would have died without Crowley's quick thinking. And not just discorporated either, actually dead.

But he wasn't, and he tried to remind himself of that again as he tossed more bread out to the ducks.

"Fancy seeing you here, angel."

Aziraphale pulled himself out of his dark musings and glanced over to see that the demon had appeared. "Oh, there you are."

Crowley grunted at him in exasperation. He was facing away from Aziraphale, casually leaning back against the railing of the bridge. Or he would appear casual to the common viewer. To Aziraphale's discerning eye he was tense, his eyes darting back and forth across the park underneath his dark glasses.

"Has something happened?" Aziraphale asked quietly, going back to feeding the ducks.

Crowley shifted. "No. Just a feeling is all."

Aziraphale felt a shiver go up his spine at that. "It's been a couple weeks now and you haven't heard anything from the home office," he said optimistically. "Perhaps they still don't know."

They had been cautious the last couple weeks since the incident. Crowley still wasn't sure if he'd actually managed to kill Malebranche—the demon who had stabbed Aziraphale—or if he had only inconveniently discorporated him. If it was the latter, the demon would definitely be back and looking for revenge. So as soon as Crowley had made sure Aziraphale was fine and could manage on his own, he'd gone back to his own flat and they hadn't gotten in contact again until today. Aziraphale really hoped Hell never found out what happened to Malebranche. Truly he didn't wish anyone dead, not even a demon, but he'd never felt closer to wanting that than he did with Malebranche, if only so he could never be allowed to tell the truth. After all, Crowley had only been acting defensively. Aziraphale just didn't think Hell would count that as an excuse.

Crowley didn't reply, shifting again and finally turning around, leaning over the rail to look into the water below.

Aziraphale threw the last of the bread into the water and glanced at him. "My dear, if you're worried you are welcome to come stay at my place for a few days."

"No," Crowley said quickly, pushing away from the railing. "I won't lead them to you again." He pressed his thumb against his opposite palm where a pink scar had formed in the place he had dripped holy water down his hand.

"Surely my place must be safer than your flat," Aziraphale tried to reason.

"Yes, and you seem to forget Malebranche saw you with me last time, unless you don't remember that you got stabbed Aziraphale, because I do!"

The angel could almost feel the tension washing off of Crowley in waves, but before he could say anything else, the demon took a step back. "Look, I'm sure it's fine. But we can't stay here long without risk, so I'll let you go. Let's plan on meeting in another couple weeks to check in."

"Crowley!" Aziraphale called but the demon was already striding away down the path, shoulders hunched and hands shoved in his pockets.

Aziraphale stood there for a long moment, an uncomfortable feeling worming its way into his chest. Crowley may be naturally given to panic, but the demon looked simply terrified to him. He wished Crowley had accepted his invitation, but at the same time he understood the logic behind his refusal. If anything were to happen, it would be better that they weren't both caught in the crossfire.

Still he certainly didn't plan on waiting two weeks to check on his friend. He just hoped they were both a little paranoid after their harrowing experience and in a few weeks, they would forget all about it.

Aziraphale dusted some bread crumbs off his sleeve and walked back toward his shop, still quite unable to rid himself of the chill that had moved from his shoulder to his whole being.

~~~~~~~

Crowley took care locking his door when he got back to his flat. He had bought new locks—several of them. Though even he knew they wouldn't do much for demons if they really wanted to get in. After all, demons didn't even really need doors. Still, it made him feel a little better, or perhaps it was just helping him fool himself.

He paced around, trying to shake the feeling that had come over him starting yesterday. That something was coming. He couldn't really do anything, he didn't dare turn on the television for fear Hell would contact him. Same with listening to music.

Eventually, he pulled out one of the few books he owned, a pulp fiction novel that Aziraphale would most like tut over, and crawled into his bed—though not after he had gone to the safe behind the portrait of the Mona Lisa and retrieved the thermos from within.

He felt a slight terror every time he glanced at it, sitting so seemingly innocuous on his bedside table, but it would at least take out a few if they came for him.

He didn't really know what he was doing. He'd never really feared Hell before. It was a dark place, and the authorities could be hard on you, but as long as you did a little corrupting here and there and filled out the right paperwork—Hell was big on paperwork—they mostly left you alone to do your own thing. Which is why he couldn't understand why Malebranche had come for him, or understand how he had apparently known about his…fraternizing with Aziraphale. And if Malebranche knew, then who else did? Hastur obviously, but Hastur had never liked Crowley. The trouble lay in the If where someone higher on the food chain knew. Beelzebub, for one. There was a right bastard.

Crowley wouldn't be so worried if he'd just thought Hastur had put Malebranche up to it. The interrogator's failure would be nothing more than an embarrassment to the Duke of Hell, which Hastur would likely pretend never happened and simply glare more furiously at Crowley the next time they met. He just felt there was more to this, which is why he was so terrified. For him and Aziraphale. Because if Hell knew about them, then how long would it be before Heaven caught wind of it too?

He growled and yanked the covers over himself, huddling into the bed. The knife he had stolen from Malebranche was under his pillow, an extra guard, the holy water was on the nightstand, and he was as secure as he could be. No need to worry over something he would be forgetting in a couple months. Perhaps he would work overtime on corrupting the next couple weeks to bring himself back up to good standing.

He picked up the book and started reading, forcing himself to concentrate on it. And soon the words started to run together and the warmth of the bed was working to relax him almost too much. He realized for the first time how exhausted he was. The book fell onto his chest and he let his eyes slip closed, in what he would soon realize was a fatal error.

~~~~~~~

They came for Crowley in his flat after all.

And he had gone and fallen asleep, not even realizing that there was a presence in his room until far too late to do anything about it.

Crowley came awake with a start, scrabbling at the sheets as hands fastened around his ankles. But the sheets only came off with him, tangling him up. He had no chance to reach for the holy water, not even for the dagger under his pillow which he should have kept in his hand while he slept. The demons hauled him in like a fish in a net, depositing him onto the floor where they surrounded him.

He cried out, cursed at them, scratched and bit, but it did no good. They bound chains around his arms and legs, and left him helpless, hanging over a demon's shoulder as they dragged him through a portal and down.

Crowley landed heavily.

It was dark, except for the dim glow of candlelight. He shivered despite the suffocating heat. A foot thudded into his ribs and Crowley grunted, curling up as much as he could.

"Get him on his knees," a low, sibilant voice hissed.

His chains were being undone, and Crowley struggled again, until he got slapped in the back of the head.

"Stop it."

Hastur. Crowley should have known that bastard was behind this.

"Hastur!" He tried for a confused jovial tone, but his voice sounded too strangled. "Hey old mate, haven't seen you for a while. What's all this then?"

"We know what you did," Hastur said. "We know you tried to stop Malebranche from doing his work. Discorporated him." He sneered, his pale, thin face contorting nastily. "We also know you did it to defend an angel."

Crowley's breath caught in his throat. Damn. Damn, damn, damn. That wasn't good at all. Hell would want blood for that, and they would take their pound of flesh from Crowley happily. But another worrying thought flashed through his mind too. If Hell knew about their charade—then did Heaven also know about it? Was Aziraphale in danger? He didn't think heaven was as strict about things, as big on punishment, but then, he didn't think there had been an angel who worked with a demon since The Fall. What if his friend was in Heaven now, being tortured by his own kind?

He needed to think of something fast.

"Trust me, whatever it is he thought he saw, it's not what it looks like. I can explain!"

"We'll be the judge of that," Hastur snorted.

He didn't have time to think more on a plan of defense though, because he suddenly remembered what else Hastur had said in regards to Malebranche. Discorperated. Tried to stop. No, it couldn't be.

Footsteps came into the room and he looked up to see the tall, formidable figure of Malebranche standing there. The interrogator nodded to the demons who had brought Crowley in before he focused in on the captured demon.

"Crowley," Malebranche said with a cruel leer, looking at Crowley like he was something to eat. "I'm so glad you joined us."

Hastur had hauled him onto his knees, and decided to keep him there with a knife to his throat.

Crowley swallowed hard, the blade bobbing against his throat. "Not like I had much of a choice."

Malebranche strode forward, reaching down and gripping a handful of Crowley's hair, yanking his head back. Crowley felt suddenly very vulnerable. He didn't have his glasses, he was only wearing his black trousers and shirt, didn't even have shoes on—he'd been in bed after all. He certainly didn't feel as brave as he had been in the park when Aziraphale was being threatened.

"I'm sure you remember the last time we met," Malebranche said. "It took me this long to get a new body—paperwork, you know, dreadful. I'm sure you thought you were getting off scot-free, but…here we are." He shrugged, a cruel grin spreading over his face.

Crowley swallowed again, his mouth suddenly very dry. "Oh, that?" he stuttered. "That was just a misunderstanding. You see, I was…I was undercover! I was working to get the angel to be a contact of mine, pretending to be his friend! Sorry I had to stab you, but I was…working on a…a top secret mission and all that. Wasn't gonna blow my cover when I'd already gotten so far!"

Malebranche glanced over at Hastur who shook his head slowly at Crowley's babbling.

The interrogator sighed in disappointment and then slapped Crowley across the face, nearly sending him to the ground.

"Your lies are only making this worse, Crowley."

"They're not lies! Look, no one will admit it because it's top secret and all, but I promise, I—"

Another backhanded blow forced him to catch himself with his bound hands, and Hastur's knife cut his throat a little. Malebranche watched, unamused. "Lord Beelzebub has asked me to oversee your…correction," Malebranche said. "After all, a demon can't be seen fraternizing with an angel. It's just not done."

"I'm not fraternizing!" Crowley tried again, desperate. He had to talk his way out of this, not just for his sake, but for Aziraphale's as well. "For the last time, I was working up a contact! If you'll just listen—"

"Don't be coy," Hastur growled behind him, grabbing him around the throat and hauling him backwards. "That wasn't the first time you and the pigeon were seen together. Why do you think I alerted Malebranche about it in the first place? I've always said that you had grown too fond of Earth and the humans, but maybe you've fallen even farther than that." He leaned in close, foul breath washing over Crowley's face. "Maybe you want to turn traitor, and you know what we do with traitors."

"We have something special prepared," Malebranche said with an oily smile. "Make sure you never disobey again." He nodded to the demon guards and Hastur shoved Crowley away from him as the guards grabbed him between them again and hauled him to his feet, dragging him toward a door at one side of the room.

Crowley struggled as the room was revealed to him, digging his feet in, for the little good it did.

"Welcome to my private office," Malebranche said with a smirk.

The only thing about the room resembling an office was the desk in one corner. The only other furnishing in the room was a rack, and of course the décor on the walls, which held every torture implement ever invented. Crowley went weak in the knees just seeing it and made one last attempt to free himself.

Malebranche went to a table and picked up a knife from among the other instruments there, testing the sharpness menacingly. "You will never leave here unless we let you, Crowley, or unless you learn your lesson. You're trapped for all eternity. An eternity to be spent how we wish." He nodded to the demon guards. "Put him over there, on his knees."

Crowley was led to the open part of the floor; this part was stained darker than the rest of the room. The backs of his knees were kicked, sending him to the ground. Hastur waved a hand and the chains around his arms and legs slithered around him, now just manacling his hands in front of him, chained to the ground through a metal loop built into the floor, effectively keeping him on his knees.

Malebranche strode over and reached out to rip Crowley's shirt open, popping buttons that flew away carelessly to the corners of the room, revealing his skinny chest. Crowley wanted to protest the treatment of an otherwise good shirt when he saw Malebranche taking the knife from Hastur, running a finger over it teasingly, putting Crowley effectively on edge before he placed it on the table with a collection of other sharp and pointy things.

Crowley relaxed slightly for the moment. But the pain was coming soon, he knew it. He just didn't know where it would start.

"You can't do this!" he tried to threaten one more time, struggling against the chains that bound him all too securely.

"Oh, we can," Malebranche said with a smirk, seeming to enjoy Crowley's struggles more than he should. "Lord Beelzebub commands that you be punished and so you shall. Enjoy eternity, Crowley. I know I'll enjoy hearing you scream."

Hastur kicked Crowley for good measure and Crowley finally felt the panic truly setting in. There was no chance of escape. Not now. Even if he got out of this room, these chains, there was no way he could get out of Hell. And even if by some miracle he did, how far would he get before he was simply caught and brought back to this room for Malebranche to torture again?

The head interrogator was browsing his copious amounts of torture implements thoughtfully, turning back to enjoy Crowley's despair.

"Well, little serpent. Let's get started then, shall we?"

Chapter Text

If he could be credited with nothing else, Malebranche was a master of pain.

It might have been impressive if Crowley was not the subject of his artistic abilities. No matter how brutal Malebranche was, he always had an elegance—one had to respect that. He was a master at his medium, and his medium was pain.

He started with giving Crowley a good old-fashioned beating, then let Hastur and the guards join in, leaving the captive demon nearly unconscious by the end. Crowley tried to think of anything else, but the blows hitting him left cracked ribs, fingers were crushed, his nose ran with blood, and his insides felt rearranged from Hastur's slightly pointed boot driving into his middle repeatedly. He couldn't keep back the cries after a while and felt like he had failed slightly. Malebranche only really enjoyed himself when his victims were screaming for mercy after all, and Crowley certainly shouldn't have given him that much so soon.

The torturer stood over Crowley as the demon lay curled on the ground, breathing raggedly. Then he was hauled back up to his knees by the back of his shirt before what was left of the garment was ripped off completely. Crowley bit back a whimper at the loss of just another covering. Not that it mattered. They could hurt him either way.

"Now that you're a bit more humbled, I think it's time your real punishment begins," Malebranche said, going back to the table that held all the implements.

Crowley choked out a laugh, spitting out a gob of blood. "You mean it hasn't already? Could'a fooled me."

Malebranche turned back with a sibilant smile. "Ah, Crowley. You know how this goes. That was just a warm up." He revealed a whip, multiple knotted tails hanging from it. Crowley's eyes widened, and Malebranche only smiled wider as Crowley struggled against his chains again, still desperately optimistic that they would give at some point.

"Keep struggling, I like a little fire in my subjects," Malebranche encouraged with a grin as he moved to stand behind Crowley. "It's so much more fun that way."

The demon's shoulders hunched, back twinging in anticipation of the blows. He flinched as wind whistled through the whip cords but it was only a practice swing. Crowley whimpered.

Malebranche laughed, then laid into him.

Crowley felt the knotted lashes score across his back like fire. He grunted, arching his back at the pain. He thought it couldn't get worse, but it did. With every strike, it got worse.

He tried to keep silent but as the lashes tore his back apart, he finally started crying out and then howling in pain. His elbows trembled, but his body stayed in his kneeling position as Malebranche wanted him. Tears streamed down his cheeks and he bit right through his lip from the pain.

Malebranche finally finished when Crowley's back was beyond agony and he could feel the blood soaking into the waistband of his trousers, dripping down his bruised sides. He panted, his whole body trembling, just waiting for the next strike.

Instead, Malebranche knelt down and grabbed a fistful of his hair as he leaned in close, breath hot and sulfuric against his cheek as Crowley was forced to look up at Hastur grinning at his suffering.

"Did you learn your lesson for today, Crowley?" Malebranche whispered. "You're ours, you belong here. Your new job is to pay for your sins. You're mine." The promise in the other demon's voice, the surety, made Crowley want to vomit. Somewhere in his pained haze, he wondered if Beelzebub even knew he was here, or if this had all been a fabrication by Malebranche and Hastur just to get revenge on him.

"That's all for today," Malebranche said suddenly, giving Crowley just a little bit of relief as he released him and stood.

Crowley couldn't let him just leave like that, though. He gathered a gobbet of bloody spit in his mouth and launched it at the other demon.

It hit his trouser leg. Malebranche stopped and spun, whipping the lash across Crowley's face, nearly taking out an eye and sending the demon directly to the ground.

"We have eternity, Crowley. You had best remember that," Malebranche repeated, that same promise ringing in his voice, as he and the others left the room and locked the door behind them.

Crowley slumped onto his side, curling into himself, and trembled. He just really hoped Aziraphale wasn't going through the same thing.

~~~~~~~

Aziraphale was trying not to think of his meeting with Crowley, or, more accurately, trying not to worry about it. He really didn't think there was much to worry about, not really, and yet…

Perhaps he was the one being naïve. After all, he really didn't know that much about Hell. Crowley never talked about it other than to say 'bad things happened if you disobeyed' or 'demons could get in trouble for doing the right thing'. Or for being friends with an angel. But after the incident with that demon Malebranche, Aziraphale had gotten a bit of a new perspective on just how bad it might be Down There. That demon had gone after them with a poisoned blade. Crowley had told him that the poison didn't have the same effect on demons as it had on Aziraphale, that it was only used to subdue wayward soldiers and bring them back to Hell if they made a fuss, but that didn't really make Aziraphale feel any better. Whether the results were fatal or not, that demon had been planning on using the poison on Crowley if he resisted—maybe even if he hadn't. Aziraphale had just happened to get in the way first.

But he also knew Crowley could be paranoid. Overly so, in fact. After all, he'd doggedly gone after Aziraphale to give him holy water as a last resort should Hell come to his door. That had been decades ago, and he had yet to use it, so Aziraphale didn't think this was any different. Not really.

He sighed, going to make himself a nice cup of chamomile tea to hopefully calm his nerves. Crowley would probably just scold him for being worried if he went over to the demon's flat now after just having seen him earlier that day. He would give Crowley a couple days and then go check on him. Just to make sure.

In the meantime, he would try to keep himself otherwise occupied.

~~~~~~~

Crowley had spent a horrid night, unable to move from the spot on the cold, hard floor, his body bruised and his back torn. He was both cold and slicked with sweat from the natural climate of Hell. And he knew it could only get worse from here.

Not at all surprisingly, it did.

Malebranche strode in that day with two guards who went over to Crowley and started to undo the chains. Crowley mustered a little strength to struggle, making it difficult for them as Malebranche chuckled.

"Don't bother, Crowley. You're not going anywhere."

The other demons, far stronger than he was, simply lifted him bodily and slammed his injured back against the rack. Crowley let out a howl of pain despite his best efforts, spitting both curses and blesses at the demons, undecided on which was more satisfying. He was paralyzed by pain as they locked his wrists and ankles into the manacles attached to the metal rack.

Malebranche stood off to one side, watching, and shed his greatcoat, rolling up his sleeves, leering at Crowley who somehow managed to glower defiantly back at him, attempting to muster his most fearsome look.

"How was your night?" Malebranche asked him looking over his tools. "Comfortable?"

"Sod off," Crowley snarled.

Malebranche sighed. "Still defiant, I see? Well, we'll fix that soon enough." He selected a cruelly curved blade and stepped over to the rack. Crowley snarled up at him, calling Malebranche a few choice names before he was hit in the jaw and then his already abused ribs with the pommel of the dagger. He clenched his fists and bit back a cry of pain. Really, just the act of lying down on his flayed back was more torture than he could take, but it was obvious he would only be made to endure more. And it wasn't like it was going to make any difference. This wasn't torture for information, after all, not really. This was a punishment. They weren't even interested in letting him defend himself.

Malebranche tsked as he stood over him.

"Now, be a good little snake and lie still." The interrogator leaned over Crowley's struggling figure and dug the blade into his leg and slowly cut down to his knee, tearing Crowley's favorite trousers and digging into his flesh. Crowley gritted his teeth, trying to draw his knees up, but of course he couldn't with his ankles locked in place.

"I am truly glad you're so willing to fight," Malebranche told him with a horrifying smile. "The ones that just lie there and take it, act the victims, are no fun at all." He leaned over again, gripping Crowley's throat and tipping his head back to expose his neck, putting the blade against the soft flesh. "Keep this up, and you might be my new favorite."

Crowley growled. "Go bugger off!"

Malebranche slashed his blade across Crowley's clavicle then pressed it into the corner of his eye. "Shh, we're just getting started. Let's not be nasty."

Crowley snarled at him again and received a slash down his cheek. Blood poured down his jaw and he flinched.

Malebranche returned the blade to the base of Crowley's throat and began tracing it slowly down the center of his chest then seemed to make a point of sliding the blade over each rib, pressing just enough to prick and not enough to really draw blood, building the anticipation for when the pain finally did come. Crowley squirmed despite his best efforts, chest heaving with sharp breaths. His heart was beating so fast and Malebranche obviously noticed because he brought the blade up to Crowley's throat, right against his jugular, and watched the sharp tip dance with Crowley's throbbing pulse.

"Look at you," his tormentor sneered, digging the blade in and watching the blood pool up. "Heart all fluttering. Hardly a demon at all. More like a little rabbit caught in a trap."

Crowley snarled, spitting at Malebranche, but missing his mark. The torturer seemed pleased at this. "But a frightened little rabbit that bites back." He slashed the blade across Crowley's chest and the demon let out a surprised yelp.

"Such a responsive subject though, I'm just so thrilled," Malebranche grinned and traced the blade down his belly, leaving a trail of blood. Crowley's breath hitched as the blade traced around one sharp hipbone.

"But enough of this teasing," Malebranche said. "It's time to make you sorry, serpent."

Crowley was already sorry. He was so sorry he had gotten caught. But he had no chance to voice this sentiment before Malebranche started really going in with the dagger and then Crowley couldn't help the cries of pain that escaped him despite his best efforts. Malebranche seemed to inhale every sound that escaped Crowley's throat as if it were lifeforce.

"I wonder," the demon mused eventually, dragging the dagger down Crowley's ribs. "What sort of sounds your angel would make if I had him like I had you now? Do you think he would be screaming by now? Or would he hold out longer than you?"

Crowley closed his eyes, wishing Malebranche would stop talking. The only thing worse than being here was imagining Aziraphale being here with him. He had tried not to think of Aziraphale and what might be happening to him if Crowley was here and their 'Arrangement' had indeed been found out. He couldn't even fathom something so wretched happening to the angel. Aziraphale was all light and purity and goodness, he should never have to step foot in a place of dark sin like this. The blood and the heat, and the pure agony.

"The angel is just a contact, I told you," Crowley bit out.

Malebranche chuckled, leaning over Crowley and tipping his head back with his dagger, seeming to completely ignore what he'd said. "Oh, what I wouldn't give to have him here right now. Your precious little angel. How I would enjoy peeling back his layers of righteousness, making him scream, making him cry, defiling him until he was just as filthy as the rest of us—snuffing out his light. I would give anything to see your reaction to that."

Crowley let out in unintelligible protest and turned his head to one side to escape the dagger at his throat and to hide his expression from the other demon. Malebranche chuckled again, low and cruel.

"Yes, Crowley, I will make you cry too eventually. It's only a matter of time."

He left, leaving Crowley bleeding and trembling in his wake. Crowley couldn't stand to think of Aziraphale suffering. The only thing that was keeping him going down here was knowing the angel was likely safe, at his shop, surrounded by all his books.

~~~~~~~

It was amazing, really, but it got worse.

Crowley wasn't really sure how long he lay on that rack until Malebranche returned. He had no sense of time in Hell. Not when he slipped in and out of consciousness so randomly. It could have been overnight, or it could have been two days later. He just knew his wounds had scabbed over, though he was sure that they would soon be opened again.

He knew he was in even more trouble than that when Malebranche came in with a bottle of something and thick rubber gloves.

"You know what this is?" Malebranche asked, catching Crowley's weary gaze. He took his coat off again and started to pull on the gloves.

Crowley swallowed hard but tried to muster his defiance even though his body was screaming on the inside. "Sod off," he said, glowering up at the interrogator.

Malebranche just smirked. He brought up the bottle, raising it over Crowley and tipped it slightly to one side.

Several drops spilled out and landed on Crowley's chest. The burn was instant, like acid, and he cried out, arching off the rack as much as he could.

"Don't worry, it's diluted—only one tenth holy water. Melting you would hardly be ideal," Malebranche said conversationally. "But it's still enough to hurt like the very Devil himself."

Crowley looked up at him, panting. "Don't blaspheme," he growled from between clenched teeth.

Malebranche raised his eyebrows, seeming angry and yet slightly amused at the same time. In retribution he sprinkled more drops on top of Crowley, each one a multitude of agony. Crowley shuddered, trying to move as much as he could, which wasn't much at all, certainly not enough to dodge the drops of holy water.

Malebranche took up his knife again and leaned over Crowley, setting the bottle down on the side of the rack. Crowley glanced at it, wondering if he could tip it over. But it would probably be just as likely to get on him as on Malebranche and he would only be punished worse for it.

Malebranche seemed to see what he was thinking and grabbed his chin, yanking his face up. "I wouldn't, Crowley. That would piss me off quite a bit and you really don't want to know what I might do to you then."

Crowley growled, then his breath hitched as Malebranche cut into his cheek. More blood dripped down his face. Malebranche picked up the flask of holy water and before Crowley could shout a protest, he dribbled some of it into the open cut.

Crowley cried out at this new pain which was even worse, if possible, than just the holy water on his skin. Malebranche chuckled and moved his knife to the demon's chest, dragging the blade across one of his pectorals. The holy water splashed onto the tender skin and Crowley screamed, unashamed. Malebranche seemed beyond pleased at his reaction.

"You do wear pain well, Crowley," Malebranche said as if it were some twisted compliment.

Crowley tried to get his breath back, eyes wet with unshed tears of pain. "You—you bastard! I'll never break!"

"You will, they all do," Malebranche told him with certainty.

"Not me, never!" Crowley hissed.

"Should we test that theory?" Malebranche asked him, raising an eyebrow. Crowley cursed at him, the fury helping his pain just a little.

Malebranche had his blade again tracing it up Crowley's throat, over his chin and stopping at his bottom lip, pressing until it clacked against his teeth. "You know, I'm done with your smart tongue," he said. "I bet that you wouldn't be half as defiant if you couldn't insult me."

Crowley realized what he was doing an instant too late. His eyes blew wide and he yanked so hard at his manacles, his wrists tore open. Malebranche pressed Crowley's mouth open despite his best efforts to keep it closed and dribbled several drops of holy water in past his teeth.

Agony. Pure agony!

Crowley screamed, his throat raw and bloody now, specks of red flying out to speckle his burned lips. His throat and his tongue were both blistered with the holy water and he didn't think he had ever experienced something so terrible in his whole life.

"Sthoph," he tried but couldn't get the word out, his tongue too painful and clumsy. He panicked. What if it never healed? What would he do? He choked again but this time it was a sob, he was shocked to realize. Crowley didn't cry. That simply didn't happen.

Except he was crying now. Tears of fear and horror, and desperation, streamed down his face. And there was Malebranche staring down at him as if he had just won a prize.

"Yes, there we are," he said, dropping his dagger and taking Crowley's face between his hands, wiping his thumbs against Crowley's cheeks, smearing the tears and blood. "You're finally seeing where I'm coming from here." He leaned over, grabbing a fistful of Crowley's hair to keep his head still. "You're mine, Crowley. The only thing you're good for is to be my plaything. I want you to know that. That's how you're spending the rest of eternity. Like this. With me." His hot, terrible breath washed over Crowley's face, making his skin crawl.

Then Malebranche finally straightened up, looking all too pleased with himself, and left the room.

Crowley continued to sob, unable to stop, small, gasping, pitiful sounds that made his throat ache. He tried to form words and couldn't. His tongue was clumsy, painful. The thought that he had been effectively silenced made more tears fall, stinging in the wounds. He didn't know how much more he could endure.

~~~~~~~

Aziraphale gave Crowley almost three days and then decided he couldn't wait any longer.

He took the bus to the demon's flat. He saw the Bentley parked outside on the street, so his friend must be home. He went up to the room Crowley rented.

He knocked on the door. "Crowley? It's me, I just came to check up on you."

There was no answer. Perhaps the demon was sleeping. Aziraphale knocked again, louder. "Crowley?"

He waited several minutes but still no one came to the door. Frowning, he checked the handle and found the door was locked. Tired of waiting and growing anxious, Aziraphale snapped his fingers and the locks slid open. He pushed the door open and went inside.

"Crowley?" he called again.

He looked around, seeing nothing out of the ordinary, except that Crowley wasn't there. But again he thought that perhaps Crowley might be sleeping and hadn't heard him so he went to the back of the apartment where the demon's bedroom was.

That door was closed too and Aziraphale knocked on it politely. "Crowley, it's me. I'm sorry about the rude intrusion, I just wanted to make sure you were all right."

Still no answer.

Aziraphale opened the door.

The room was empty, except…

Aziraphale frowned as he glanced around. There wasn't really anything out of place, except there was a sheet from the bed on the floor—but Crowley wasn't always tidy so Aziraphale didn't think too much of that. What really bothered him was the sight of the familiar tartan thermos sitting on the bedside table. Aziraphale crossed the room to pick it up just to make sure, but it was indeed the one he had given Crowley and there was still holy water in it.

It was then he noticed the faint smell of sulfer and brimstone. Crowley had been on Earth too long to leave that scent anywhere anymore, and really, half the time he was wearing one of those fancy colognes from the expensive department stores anyway.

All of this led Aziraphale to only one conclusion: demons had come for Crowley just like he had been afraid of, and now there was only one place his friend could be.

"Oh, good heavens," he breathed, trembling with the realization. "Crowley…oh, what am I going to do?"

How would he get to his friend if he was being detained in Hell? It wasn't as if he could just waltz in there…

Which, despite his better judgment, is exactly what Aziraphale decided he was going to have to do.

Crowley had saved his life, now it was time to repay the favor. There was the Arrangement after all. Or, part of it anyway. The New Arrangement. But he would need to have a plan. He would have to be careful, covert, and ready for anything. He only wished he had his flaming sword.

Aziraphale bit his lip. Well, he didn't have his original sword, true, but he did have something that could work, a very special blade he'd picked up on his travels, and with the right mindset, he could make it look quite formidable. But he would also need a disguise, otherwise he wouldn't get two feet into Hell without being caught out.

Thinking quickly, he went over to Crowley's closet and sorted through his wardrobe. He plucked out several items, all in black, and then miracled them to his own size. Soon he was dressed in a black shirt and trousers with a hooded coat that would hopefully hide most of his features as well as his halo. He looked at himself in the mirror and sighed.

"You must save him," he told his reflection. "Failure simply isn't an option."

He turned to leave and as a last thought, he took the keys to the Bentley. He would need a getaway vehicle once he got Crowley out after all. He just hoped he could handle it. He did know how to drive…in theory. He just chose not to.

He luckily knew where there was a way into Hell, but he stopped by his bookshop first, and dug through an old chest in the back room. He had a sword he'd kept from the old days. He hadn't used it for a long time and it was a little rusty, but with a miracle or two it was impressive enough. And better, it was enchanted so that it would do damage to demons if needed.

Kitted out, he was now ready to go rescue his friend. He only hoped he was not going to be too late. He had no idea what Crowley might be going through right now, but he was certain that whatever it was, it could not be good.

Chapter Text

A harsh slap to the face brought Crowley back to consciousness suddenly and he groaned, opening his mouth to spit some insult, but his tongue was on fire, swollen, his throat aching. All that came out of his mouth was a strangled whimper.

"Not so cocky now, are you?"

Crowley blinked up and saw Hastur looming over him, a gleeful smirk on his face. Crowley glowered, trying to put all his words into that one look. He didn't realize that Malebranche was on his other side until he felt someone messing with his manacles. Fear spiked through him. Obviously, they weren't letting him go, so what would they do now? Were they taking him to his execution after all? He wasn't really betting on getting anything in the way of a trial.

"I hope you don't mind I invited Hastur to join us," Malebranche said with a smirk. "Today's punishment is going to be special and I didn't want him to miss it."

Crowley groaned and tried to move as his manacles were undone, but he was too weak to do so. Malebranche grabbed him and hauled him to his feet, practically throwing him to the ground where he had been whipped the first day. He was hauled to his knees and more manacles were locked around his hands before being chained to the wall on either side, spreading his arms helplessly. Unfortunately, he was having a hard time staying upright due to the abuse he had taken and Hastur plucked something from the accouterments on the wall.

"I think a disobedient dog needs to be collared, don't you?" he asked with a smirk.

Malebranche smiled. "I do agree." He took the collar, locking it around Crowley's neck and looped a chain through it, which he then attached to the wall Crowley was facing. The chain was higher than he was, tugging his chin up so that if he collapsed now, he would choke and not even be able to catch himself with his hands chained as they were.

Hastur ran long fingers through Crowley's hair mockingly. "Good mutt."

Crowley hissed at him, though even that hurt. Hastur chuckled, tapping his cheek none-too-gently. "I like you much better like this. Unable to use that smart tongue of yours. You've done well so far, Malebranche. I think you've effectively cowed him."

Crowley wished he could tell him he was hardly cowed, but of course he couldn't, and really, he didn't feel too brave anymore, or defiant. Not after being shamefully reduced to tears half the night.

Malebranche chuckled. "Well, he's not quite there yet, but after today, I'm sure he will be." He walked in front of Crowley and leaned down, gripping his chin in one hand. "Now, be a good little snake and show me your wings."

Crowley balked, trying to pull away but the collar wouldn't allow him to. He sneered and glowered at Malebranche, showing what little defiance he had left.

Malebranche slapped him. "Do it, or I'll do it for you and you won't like that at all."

Crowley continued to stare. No way was he going to do anything willingly, even if it meant more pain. He may not have a voice but he still had control of his body despite what Malebranche wanted him to think.

The interrogator sighed long-sufferingly. He started rolling up his sleeves again. "Very well. We'll do this the hard way."

He didn't seem at all upset about it, which was most likely a bad thing. Crowley tensed as the demon walked around behind him again, Hastur grinning at the scene that was about to unfold. Crowley felt Malebranche's hand on his back, claws digging into the flayed skin, and he arched his back with a strangled cry as he felt the demon forcibly manifest his wings, pulling them onto the corporeal plane.

The large, black appendages appeared on either side of him and Crowley instinctively pulled them close to his body.

"Ah-ah," Hastur told him. "You keep those pretty wings of yours on display. You've been a very naughty demon, Crowley. You need to be punished."

Crowley's eyes blew wide, jerking against his chains as Hastur grabbed his left wing and wrenched it out to the side, completely open. His fingers dug through the feathers, pulling at them uncomfortably. But that wasn't even the worst.

Crowley looked up to see what Malebranche was doing and saw him holding the whip again. Crowley cried out in protest, trying to wrench his wing away from Hastur, but was unable to since the other demon was putting pressure on the joint, keeping him firmly in place.

"I'm confident you will definitely have learned your lesson after this," Malebranche told him and Crowley could hear the satisfied smile on his face.

There was a whistle of the whip and then it landed on his helpless wing.

Crowley's eyes blew wide and a yelp escaped his throat. He yanked against Hastur's hold, pulling out several of his own feathers in the process, but the demon only held on tighter, holding his wing on display for Malebranche.

The interrogator continued the flogging. Pain tore through Crowley, and he saw feathers, some whole, some in pieces, fall to the floor after several strikes. After several more, splatters of blood followed.

He was screaming by then, his raw throat growing even more raw. He could taste blood in the back of his throat from all the screaming. Tears streamed down his face again, and he couldn't stop them. All he could feel was the pain, and Hastur's cruel laugher echoed in his ears as it just kept going.

Finally, Malebranche stopped and Hastur dropped Crowley's wing. It fell limply at his side as Crowley slumped, panting. The collar was cutting off his air but he hardly noticed past everything else. If the lack of air made him pass out, all the better. Anything to take him away from this agony.

A hand gripped his hair, hauling his head back up. Crowley forced his eyes open and saw Malebranche's smug face leaning toward him.

"Have you learned your lesson yet?"

Crowley sobbed for breath, but mustered enough strength to send a gobbet of bloody saliva to hit Malebranche's cheek.

The demon slowly wiped it off then backhanded Crowley across the face.

"I guess we'll have to do the other one then."

Crowley squeezed his eyes shut as Hastur grabbed his other wing and the whole thing started over again.

~~~~~~~

Crowley had passed out at some point during the beating and stayed unconscious until the next session. He was barely aware by the time Malebranche came back. Maybe part of him didn't even care at this point.

"Hello, darling," Malebranche said mockingly. "What do you think we should try today, hm? Knives again? Holy water? Maybe something a little more…exotic?" He motioned to the plethora of instruments on the walls, waggling his eyebrows. He seemed in a horrifyingly good mood today.

Crowley didn't answer, just stared at Malebranche's shoes as the demon came closer.

The demon reached down and grabbed his chin, forcing Crowley to look at him. "What's wrong? Feeling a bit shy this morning? Is it possible I've finally managed to beat some of that defiance out of you? I never would have thought I'd see the day."

Crowley curled his shoulders in, trying to make himself as small as possible. His wings were sprawled out on either side of him, causing spears of pain to shoot through them straight to his back every time he moved.

Footsteps echoed out in the hallway, coming closer, and Crowley couldn't help the whimper that escaped his throat, sure it was Hastur again, the Duke only coming to add insult to injury.

But the footsteps stopped outside the door and an insistent hammering started.

Malebranche frowned, sniffing. "What? Who's there? I'm busy!"

Crowley begged for it to be someone coming to call Malebranche away. Anything to delay further agony, give himself time to gather what little nerve and self-respect he had left.

He did not expect the door to be kicked in, or rather, blasted. He looked over his shoulder in shock.

A blinding light appeared in the doorframe, so bright Crowley had to look away for fear of going blind.

But not before he recognized the figure it was radiating from. Someone he never thought to see again.

Aziraphale. His mind supplied before he passed out.

~~~~~~~

The moment Aziraphale stepped into Hell, he could feel the atmosphere pressing in on him, oppressive, evil, so very evil. He choked on the brimstone, his angelic lungs protesting, but he didn't stop or falter. Not when he was this close to saving his friend.

If he survived the journey, and if Crowley was indeed still alive.

And if he wasn't, then, well, Aziraphale would do his damned best to avenge him.

He hid the sword under the coat, but kept it close to hand, drawing the hood further around his face and trying to keep his angelic essence under wraps as much as possible. He really hoped he wouldn't give himself away.

He had to pass some demons, but he kept his head down, ignoring them as they did the same to him. He trembled, terrified, every time he heard footsteps but as of yet, he hadn't been stopped.

He didn't truly know where he was going, he just went downward. The further you went the worse it got, he figured, and he had a bad feeling Crowley was suffering the worst at the moment.

He had a feeling he was in the right place when he started to hear the screams.

Aziraphale shuddered. They were overwhelming. Tormented, haunting wails. The pure agony he could hear from human throats and otherwise pierced his very soul, causing tears to prick in his eyes. But he squared his shoulders and continued on; he had to remain stoic to save his friend.

There were so many cells down here, and for a moment he was afraid he would never be able to find Crowley, but then something floated across the ground and touched his shoe. Aziraphale reached down to pick it up and he realized it was a black feather. A very familiar one.

"Crowley," he whispered.

He looked around and spotted several others all coming from under a door a few meters down the hall. He cautiously stepped over and drew his sword. He had no idea if Crowley was alone, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

He steeled himself, then raised his hand to knock on the door, far more heavily than was ever polite, but it felt appropriate.

"What? Who's there? I'm busy!" came an unfamiliar voice, which was definitely not Crowley's, however, Aziraphale did find it vaguely familiar. Perhaps because it was the same demon who had attacked them in the park.

Crowley had to be in there. And if he was, Aziraphale was going to get him out!

He took a deep breath and then unceremoniously raised his foot, summoning all his strength, and kicked in the door, surprising himself at his own power.

Sure enough, there was that Malebranche demon standing there with a blade in his hand, looming over a beaten figure chained on his knees.

"What? Who are you?" the demon demanded, squinting against his light.

Aziraphale pulled down his hood and flared his wings, letting his angelic aura shine to its ultimate capacity as he caused his sword to flame to life.

"Your doom!" he boomed out, instantly regretting it. It had seemed like a good line in his head, heroic, but it sounded rather silly to say out loud.

Malebranche cocked his head at him, shielding his eyes from the light, and Aziraphale brandished his sword taking a step forward.

"Step away from him, foul fiend!" he demanded in his most commanding voice.

The demon sneered even though he was barely able to see anything past the blinding glow. "Ah, the angel," he said with a leer. "So glad you could join us. I was just about to remind our friend here that he belongs to me. Perhaps you'd like to watch?"

Aziraphale stepped forward, raising his sword. "You will not harm him again!"

The demon sneered. "I've already done my damage. Left my mark. He's not yours anymore, angel, he's not even his own. I broke him. And he's not coming ba—"

Aziraphale shocked even himself by driving his blade directly through the demon's chest. Malebranche choked, falling backwards, and this time, he really was dead.

Aziraphale stood in horror at what he had done. Though he had been in battle many times, he'd never killed anyone before, though, he supposed if there was ever a time…

But he couldn't worry about that right now. He turned to Crowley, putting his wings away and toning down his angelic aura so as not to blind his friend, and finally saw the full extent of Crowley's terrible state.

"Crowley," Aziraphale gasped out, rushing forward and collapsing to his knees beside his friend. He wanted to vomit at the sight of the wounds that littered Crowley's body—and his wings! Oh, his wings didn't even bear thinking about—but there was no time for that now. He reached out and gently took Crowley's face between his hands, raising it up so that the awful collar he was wearing wouldn't choke him. The demon's face was streaked with layers of blood and tears. It broke the angel's heart.

"Crowley," he whispered urgently.

The yellow eyes flickered and took a moment to focus, but eventually they found his and Aziraphale gave a watery smile. "There you are, my dear."

Crowley moaned. "'Zzz…" He seemed to be trying to say the angel's name but was for some reason unable to, cutting himself off with a choked whimper. Aziraphale simply reached down and patted his knee, which seemed to be one of the few places no damage had been done, to try and comfort him.

"Shh, it's all right, don't try to speak. Oh, my dear friend, your poor wings," he whispered, rambling. "What did they do to you?"

Tears leaked from Crowley's eyes and he gave a strangled sob. The sound was so out of place—Aziraphale had never seen Crowley cry before—that the angel was taken aback. He fought to regain some composure if only for Crowley's sake.

"Hush, my dear, it's over now. I've come to take you home."

He searched around and focused on the dead Malebranche, scrambling for a keyring on his belt. Aziraphale fumbled with the keys for a few moments until he found the right ones to open the manacles and the collar holding Crowley.

The instant he released the demon, Crowley gasped in a breath, slumping forward as his wings flickered off the corporeal plane. Aziraphale caught him gingerly, horror in his eyes as he glanced over Crowley's shoulder, seeing the state of his back, fully on display now without his wings hiding the view.

"There now, we'll get you out of here soon enough," he said as soothingly as he could muster, then shrugged out of the coat he was wearing. He placed it around Crowley's shoulders buttoning it at the top and tugging it around him to keep him warm. A rather ridiculous though in hindsight, seeing as the heat in Hell was stifling, but Crowley was shivering, so Aziraphale thought it might be a good idea.

"There we go, now let's get you on your feet."

He ignored all the blood and feathers that covered the ground. He would think about that later, back at his place when he could get Crowley cleaned up and resting in bed. Right now, they had to worry about getting out. Aziraphale stood first and picked up his sword, sheathing it, and then reached down for Crowley who was already slumping again, listing to one side, and pulled the demon to his feet as gently as possible.

Crowley keened, and couldn't seem to get his legs under him. He fell against Aziraphale, trembling, and the angel could only hold onto him to keep him upright until Crowley finally managed to steady himself.

"Alright, dear, it's alright," he murmured and adjusted his grip on Crowley, drawing one of the demon's arms around his shoulders and wrapping one of his around Crowley's waist to keep him steady.

Crowley whimpered at the position, but leaned heavily against Aziraphale as the angel started toward the door. He hoped he could get out the same way he came in because if they ran into anyone now it would be nearly impossible to defend himself and keep Crowley upright at the same time. Not to mention that without the added help of the coat, he was a beacon in this dark place.

He constantly murmured encouragement to the injured demon as they went along at a painfully slow crawl. Crowley was barely conscious and mainly just breathed heavily, seeming to be using all his focus to simply put one foot in front of the other.

Finally, Aziraphale recognized part of the path he had used on the way in and breathed a silent sigh of relief. After this it wasn't far to the exit and the car.

"Oi! What are you doing—hey!"

Aziraphale spun around with his burden to see two demons standing behind them in the hallway. They reached for weapons but Aziraphale, with a burst of energy, shifted Crowley behind him and ripped his sword from its sheath, making it flame at the same time he revealed his wings again, arching them in a defensive position.

"Stop there, foul fiends!" he said. "I have important business!"

"Angels have no business down here," one demon sneered.

"We do when one is wrongly accused," Aziraphale said in his best righteous voice. "There has been a mistake. I was sent by a…higher power." One day he would have to get better at bluffing.

The demons snorted, coming forward with their weapons again.

"Don't," Aziraphale warned in a commanding voice, causing his angelic essence to glow so bright the demons cried out, covering their eyes. "Take one step, sound an alarm and face my wrath!"

Perhaps that was a little much, but it did seem to have the proper effect as the demons promptly wet themselves and turned tail and ran. After all, an angel who would dare set foot in Hell was one to be reckoned with.

Aziraphale knew they wouldn't be gone for long, though. They would be back with reinforcements. He sheathed his sword, took hold of his precious charge more firmly, and started hurrying toward the exit, urging Crowley to keep up.

"Just hold on, Crowley. Almost there."

His lungs were burning from the hellish atmosphere as he finally burst from the door into a cool London night. Aziraphale collapsed with Crowley and breathed deeply, crouching there for a long moment with the demon slumped against him before he pushed them both upright again and struggled toward the spot he had left the Bentley. He was suddenly very glad at his foresight to bring the vehicle. He would never have been able to get a cab or go on the bus with Crowley in this condition.

It was a bit of a struggle getting Crowley in but he finally deposited the demon as gently as possible in the backseat. The fact that Crowley hadn't protested yet worried him more than anything. He'd seen Crowley's body covered in blood and wounds, but hadn't been able to inspect them closely. It was his silence that told Aziraphale that Crowley was in bad shape. Very bad. There's no way the demon would have let Aziraphale half carry him out of Hell unless there was no possible way he could manage it, and letting him do so without a single quip—especially after the admittedly rather embarrassing show he had put on in there—was even more unheard of.

Aziraphale shook off his worry and the sickness that wanted to rise in his throat and got into the car.

He turned around and set a gentle hand on Crowley's shoulder. "Don't worry, dear, I'll have you home soon. We'll get you all settled and have a lovely cup of cocoa, how does that sound?"

Crowley's eyes didn't even flicker. He was just staring ahead, eyes half-lidded as if he wasn't really awake, or unconscious, just worryingly unresponsive. Aziraphale swallowed thickly and started the car.

He had the terrible feeling that even though he had rescued Crowley, and the demon was indeed alive, he may still have been too late after all.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale drove slowly, through the London fog that obscured the road, making it difficult even for the angel to see with the Bentley's headlights—which he used, unlike Crowley usually did. He also obeyed all the speed limits and used his signals. Crowley still didn't protest even if the Bentley felt like it might want to. Aziraphale gave it a chiding when it tried to shoot forward despite the lack of pressure he had put on the pedal.

He got to the bookshop and got out of the car, pushing the seat forward to get to Crowley. The demon was completely unconscious now and Aziraphale simply pulled him into his arms, hefting the limp form as gently as possible. He was grateful it was the middle of the night, there was no one on the road and Aziraphale was able to transport Crowley from the car to the shop without eyes on them.

The demon was a dead weight in his arms, yet impossibly thin and light, and Aziraphale simply carried him into the shop and up the stairs in the back to the small apartment on the upper floor that he rarely used. But it had a tub in the bathroom that was nice for soaking and a bed that would be comfortable enough for Crowley to rest in while he recovered, both of which would be needed.

First things first, he had to get the demon cleaned up so he could properly tend to his wounds. So he took him up to the bathroom and simply lowered him into the tub. It would be easier to get him cleaned off that way.

"Now, dear," Aziraphale told him, settling him gently down and grabbing a rolled-up towel for the demon to use as a pillow. "I'm just going to see to your wounds. It won't take a moment."

He unbuttoned the coat he had wrapped Crowley in and set it aside on the towel rack. Here in the light, he could finally see the full extent of Crowley's wounds and it made him balk. The optimistic attitude he had been effecting began to fade.

Crowley had been brutalized. There was no other way to look at it. There were countless wounds; lash marks, cuts, burns, some still bleeding, some scabbed over, some reddened with infection. They littered his torso, and back, his arms and his face. Aziraphale felt his heart break a little more with every inch of his friend's skin he revealed. And that still didn't count his poor wings…Aziraphale didn't want to think about that yet. He would deal with those later. All the time Crowley was silent, still unresponsive if not completely unconscious.

Perhaps that was better. It would not be a pleasant experience to have all these wounds cleaned and Aziraphale hoped he could get the deed done before the demon came back to himself.

He quickly forced himself into action, going to fetch his first aid kit that had gotten far too much use this last month in his opinion. He brought that and a stool into the bathroom, laid the contents of the little box neatly out on the counter. It looked rather paltry to the task it would need to accomplish, he thought. But Aziraphale couldn't leave Crowley in his current state to purchase more supplies, so it would have to do for now.

He also grabbed a cloth and filled a bowl with warm water and added some disinfectant. Cutting it would be less painful, but it would still clean his wounds. He set the bowl down on the fluffy bathmat and took a seat on the stool, starting in on the monumental task at hand.

"Now," he said as he took up the cloth. "This may hurt a bit, Crowley, but I'm just getting you cleaned up, okay? Then once we're all done, you can rest, I promise."

Crowley flinched slightly as Aziraphale started working, but still didn't wake.

Aziraphale steeled himself, but there was no point in delaying. That would only assure Crowley's suffering for longer. He started with Crowley's face, and gently cupped the demon's chin, tipping his head up so he could clean the blood from the cuts there.

Blood tinged the water in the bowl as Aziraphale worked, gently finishing with Crowley's face, and moving to his neck and shoulders where there were multiple scabs, some looking like errant lash marks. Aziraphale swallowed hard and continued down Crowley's body. His whole torso was a disaster. The utter destruction wrought on Crowley's poor body was terrible. Aziraphale tried to hide his anger and horror, feeling the agony on Crowley's behalf as he gently cleaned the clotted blood from tender flesh. He wanted to be sick. All this time Crowley flinched and whimpered slightly but still never woke or said anything. He was beginning to worry Aziraphale greatly.

There were cuts to his ribs that went almost to the bone. And he saw that Crowley's whole torso was littered with oddly patterned burn marks. Aziraphale didn't want to think of what had caused that, though he was pretty sure he knew—making him even more furious.

Aziraphale stopped as he finished with Crowley's front, hands shaking. He wasn't sure he could endure going any farther just now, and yet he really had no other choice. To buy himself a minute though, he did change out the water in the bowl since it really was too dirty to continue. He felt utterly sick as he watched it wash down the sink and hurriedly filled it again, making the same mixture as before.

He sighed as he sat down again. It was time to get to Crowley's back. For this, he had to maneuver the demon forward and simply braced an arm across his chest to hold him there as he took up the cloth again and stoically began to care for the deep, brutal lash marks. Aziraphale trembled as he went, wincing on Crowley's behalf every time he dislodged a scab and fresh blood started to flow. By the time he was done, blood tinged water was dying the bottom of the tub in red rivulets.

But he was done now, except for Crowley's wings, but it was too cramped in the small bathroom to take care of those properly, so he decided that he would do them once he had gotten Crowley comfortable in bed.

He was relieved that Crowley still had not woken up during all of this, and yet another part of him wished the demon was conscious. Crowley was always very vocal when he was hurt, and he was frankly an utterly terrible patient. Having him unresponsive like this told Aziraphale more than anything, just how bad this was, and it worried him immensely.

"All right now, my dear," he said after disposing of the second bowl of dirty water and crouching back down beside the tub. "What you need is a nice soothing soak. Let me just get the bath ready."

He turned on the tap in the tub and held his wrist under it before he put the plug in, making sure the water wasn't too cold, and not too hot either or it would hurt his wounds.

It wasn't until the water started pooling in the tub, encroaching on Crowley's feet that the demon finally shot awake, looking horrified, scrambling at the sides of the tub as if he were trying to get out or at least away from the water.

Aziraphale turned in shock, not sure what to do. He grabbed the demon's flailing arms and tried to keep him from hurting himself. Crowley's eyes were wide, but they weren't focusing on him.

"Crowley, you're safe, whatever is the matter? Oh, oh, my dear," Aziraphale gasped in sudden realization. The holy water. Of course. He should have thought of that! Of course Crowley wouldn't want to be anywhere near water after being tortured in such a manner. "I'm so sorry," Aziraphale said, leaning in and moving his hands down to squeeze the demon's comfortingly, trying to get Crowley to look at him. "Crowley, it's only me here, that's all. It's just water, I promise. I would never hurt you, you know that." He had been stupid, of course. Crowley had just been tortured for days, of course he would be jumpy. "I'm just trying to get you cleaned up so you can rest, all right?"

Crowley seemed to calm down a bit at the sound of his voice and Aziraphale's hands clutching his gently, anchoring him by rubbing circles over his knuckles with his thumbs. Crowley hung his head, shoulders slumped as he trembled, knees pulled up to his chest. Aziraphale gave him a couple minutes before he slowly released his hold on Crowley and replaced the rolled-up towel that had fallen off the side of the tub so Crowley could lean back.

"Better? Would you like a bath now? I think it will make you feel better," Aziraphale coaxed.

Crowley finally nodded and Aziraphale turned back to the facet, which had been running the whole time and had finally gotten to the right temperature. He put in the plug and let the tub fill up.

He grabbed a bottle of shampoo, noticing Crowley's hair was matted with blood and sweat and thought it would feel nice to clean it. The demon wouldn't be able to with his injuries after all.

"Come now, dear, I'll wash your hair for you, okay?"

Crowley still didn't say anything, just allowed Aziraphale to get him into the right position, pouring water over his head and gently massaging his fingers through Crowley's hair with the shampoo. The demon seemed to relax just a little, eyes sliding shut, and Aziraphale was glad even though he knew Crowley's torment wasn't quite over yet. He still had to see to his wings.

Aziraphale cupped a hand across Crowley's eyes to shield them from the water as he rinsed his hair out. Aziraphale studied him closely, again wondered at the completely docile attitude Crowley had seemingly adopted. Surely, he would have said something about getting soap in his eyes or scrubbing too hard by now. Had something happened to traumatize him so much he refused to speak? The thought made Aziraphale's stomach twist.

"Oh, Crowley, I wish you'd say something," Aziraphale said softly. "Then at least I'd know you were really still in there."

He'd said it more to himself than anything, but Crowley seemed to hear him and opened his eyes again, but turned his head away, something that sounded like a sob caught in his throat.

Aziraphale studied him with concern and noticed for the first time the red welts across Crowley's lips. At first, he had thought they were a product of one of the beatings he had endured, a swollen lip, but as he looked closer he saw they were blistered. Heart quickening at the terrible suspicion running through his head, he reached out for Crowley's chin, gently turning his face toward him. "Crowley? You can talk… can't you?" he asked hesitantly, dreading the answer.

The demon whimpered again, and Aziraphale felt his stomach knot. He gently pressed his thumb to Crowley's bottom lip, coaxing him to open his mouth. "Please, let me see."

Crowley hesitated then did open his mouth slowly, tears welling in his eyes.

Aziraphale leaned forward to glance inside, tilting Crowley more toward the light, and gasped aloud.

Blisters covered his tongue, and the back of his throat, inflamed and angry. Only one thing could do that to a demon and Aziraphale wished suddenly that he hadn't killed that torturer so quickly. He really wished he hadn't and he could be damned for those wicked thoughts for all he cared.

"Oh, Crowley," he breathed in horror. "Holy water?"

The demon nodded, tears slipping from his eyes.

"That bastard," Aziraphale hissed angrily, watching Crowley's eyes widen in surprise. At least he was responding a little, anyway. Aziraphale gently cupped his cheek, in a daze of horror. "I'm so sorry, my dear. I'm so sorry."

He turned off the water as it reached a good level, and stood, clearing his throat as he found himself fighting all too many emotions. "I'm going to go make up the bed and get you some clothing, I'll be right back; just relax."

He nearly stumbled out of the bathroom into the small bedroom just down the hall. He barely made it there before he collapsed onto the floor, sobs wracking his frame. He had never truly cried before, not like this, but seeing everything his dear friend had gone through—his only real friend. And Aziraphale couldn't help but think that so much of his pain could have been avoided if he had gone to see Crowley that first day when he had cast his worries so carelessly aside. Because of that, he had allowed his friend to be captured, and then hadn't had the decency to even find out about it until three days later. Meanwhile, Crowley had been captured by the demons who hated him most and been tortured mercilessly in Hell.

Crowley had never deserved any of that, he was actually rather good for a demon and Aziraphale supposed that was why Hell thought he should be punished. Still, the horror was unfounded. The cruelty he had suffered was almost…human.

Aziraphale wept, and as the angel's tears fell, clouds gathered over the city.

It rained in London for three days straight afterward.

~~~~~~~

When Aziraphale was finally able to pull himself together, he got back to the business at hand. He glanced around the room and frowned as he saw the bed had become a collect-all for some volumes that couldn't be placed anywhere else. He actually couldn't remember the last time he had even been in here. One of the only times he had slept really was when he had been recovering from his recent injury. While he knew Crowley enjoyed sleeping for personal enjoyment, he had never really seen the point in the necessary human pastime since it wasn't necessary to him. He saw no reason to waste time he could be using to pursue scholarly studies.

He quickly began to pull the books off the bed, stacking them against the walls, then simply snapped his fingers, relieving the whole room and bed of dust, plumping the pillows, and giving it a refreshing, no longer musty scent.

Once he was done with that, he rummaged around and came up with a pair of tartan pajamas. He didn't really know why he had them since he didn't sleep, but they were there and would be much more comfortable for Crowley than his regular clothes. He took them back to the bathroom where the demon seemed to be trying to get out of the bathtub himself.

"Oh, my dear, let me," he hurried over, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around Crowley, positioning him on the toilet seat, before taking another towel and using it to gently dab him dry. It was the best he could do at the moment. He then turned to his first aid kit and started to tape some gauze onto the worst spots.

Really every spot was bad, especially on Crowley's back so Aziraphale ended up simply wrapping bandages around Crowley's whole chest and stomach, if nothing else than to pad the wounds so the clothing wouldn't scrape across them and aggravate them more.

Crowley was barely able to keep himself upright for long moments and Aziraphale had to prop him against his shoulder as he wrapped the bandages around him.

"Just a little longer and then you can lie in bed," he promised as he tucked the bandage into itself snugly. He struggled to help Crowley into the pajama pants, and the demon did actually growl at him a little, seeming even more frustrated that he couldn't say anything. He then grabbed the pajama shirt, gently pulling Crowley's arms through it. Crowley let him, seeming defeated already. Aziraphale swiftly did up the buttons then took the demon by the forearms, gently lifting him up.

"There now, let's get you into bed."

Crowley sagged instantly but Aziraphale caught him. "It's not far, dear, I promise."

Crowley whimpered but held on as Aziraphale led him across the hall to the bedroom. He'd already turned down the bed and all he had to do was lower Crowley gently down.

Crowley instantly curled on his side, burying his face in the pillow, shuddering.

Aziraphale watched for a long second, biting his lip, hating what he was going to have to do next.

"Crowley, I'm really sorry, but…I'm going to have to see your wings."

Crowley grunted, burying his face further into the pillow and curling tighter.

"Come now, Crowley, you know they will only get worse if you leave them," Aziraphale coaxed.

Crowley still didn't move, and Aziraphale sighed, deciding it best to just go gather the supplies he would need. Crowley knew what needed to happen, he was just putting it off as long as possible and really, Aziraphale couldn't blame him.

He gathered the bowl of water again and fresh cloths and more towels and took them back to the room, setting them on the bedside table. He then sat on the side of the bed, and gently touched Crowley's shoulder where he was pretty sure there wasn't a bad wound.

"Crowley, please, just let me help you," he said quietly.

Crowley shifted, taking his face out of the pillow for the most part and stared at Aziraphale with one snake-like eye, one that was dimmed with pain at the moment, and then closed it again with a sigh. There was a ripple in the air and Crowley's wings appeared.

They looked even worse than Aziraphale had remembered from the brief moment he had seen them in Hell. They hung limply to either side of Crowley, feathers ragged, and matted with blood.

Aziraphale swallowed back the tears that threatened. He suspected he'd already caused the rain that was falling outside, and there was no point in drowning London in a monsoon. He braced himself and got to work. He tucked the towels underneath Crowley's wings to keep the bed clean and then set to work.

"I'm sorry, dear, but the first thing I'm going to have to do is pull the broken feathers."

Crowley groaned, but pressed his face into the pillow again, reaching up to clutch it tightly. Aziraphale leaned over the first wing, before he decided to start at the base near Crowley's back, and reached for the first feather that had been half broken off, the quill crooked in what must have been an agonizing position.

He took a deep breath and grasped the feather, pulling it out as swiftly and as straight as possible. Crowley still flinched and let out a little yelp. There was nothing Aziraphale could do to really make this a painless process.

He continued, heart aching but stoic. He knew it would hurt a lot less in the long run by doing this and Crowley would not be at risk to get an infection.

It seemed an eternity by the time he had removed the bad feathers from both wings. There were just so many of them. But once that was over, the next part wasn't quite so bad.

"There now, just the cleaning left," Aziraphale promised.

It still hurt Crowley though, washing the clotted blood from his feathers, tinging the towels beneath him red. The demon squirmed but only let out whimpers, having overtaxed his throat before with the screaming. Aziraphale worried about how much damage that would do to Crowley's already injured throat but he would see to that later. Right now, he had to finish up the wings.

When he was finally done, Crowley seemed practically unconscious again. Aziraphale gently ran his fingers through the feathers, putting them to rights as well as he could right now. He would give Crowley a good preening later when his wings had healed a little. Until then, he thought it probably best to leave them.

"There you go, dear, all done now," Aziraphale told him softly.

Crowley murmured into the pillow and pulled his wings back onto the ethereal plane. Aziraphale couldn't blame him. They would hurt just a little less there.

He cleaned everything up, glad that was the last of bloody cloths he would have to see for now and then filled a glass of water and went back to Crowley, seeing the demon curled up on his side once again with his eyes closed.

"Would you like something to drink? You probably should drink something," Aziraphale coaxed. One of Crowley's eyes slid open halfway, not looking too enthused.

"Ah, perhaps, some ice then? It might help the…the burns."

He snapped his fingers and the water turned to ice cubes. Crowley stared at them for a long second and then gave a small nod.

Aziraphale took one and gently fed it to Crowley who winced at the cold, but closed his eyes as he sucked on it. It seemed to soothe a little at least.

Aziraphale put the ice of the side table and did a small miracle to make sure it wouldn't melt so it would be there whenever Crowley wanted it. He really took the time to study his friend and consider their position now that he didn't have the triage to distract him.

Crowley was a fugitive. And Aziraphale was hiding him. He'd gone to Hell to get him out for Heaven's sake! And Heaven…If Heaven found out, he would be punished as well. Perhaps not as severely as Crowley, but he could be sent back to Heaven for good, his corporeal body taken away so he could never go to Earth again.

Not that he regretted what he'd done for a minute, he'd saved his best and really, his only friend, after all, but he hadn't exactly thought of the implications until now and how they might possibly be equally bad in the long run for both of them.

He would have to figure out a way to keep them both safe from the fallout. Otherwise, Crowley wouldn't have anywhere to go and he would have his fellow demons hunting him until the end of time. There was no way he could be expected to stay anywhere for long.

Trying to push those dour thoughts away for the moment, Aziraphale shook himself and reached out to pull the covers over the demon. He would come up with something. He would just have to be at his most clever and he couldn't quite manage that yet.

"There now, Crowley, is there anything I can get you?" he rambled. "Some tea? I think you could use some tea, or, well, perhaps not with your burns. I'll find something else to soothe your throat then. I won't be a minute…"

He was rambling now, and turned to go fix them some drinks when Crowley's hand suddenly shot out and grabbed his wrist, tugging weakly.

Aziraphale looked back with surprise seeing the pleading in the snake-like eyes.

"Oh, Crowley," he said, throat closing up again as he caved. "I'm not going anywhere."

The demon relaxed a bit but still didn't let go. Aziraphale looked around but there was no chair in the room so he simply climbed onto the bed, sitting back against the headboard. Crowley finally let him go and curled against his legs. Aziraphale reached down to tug the blankets closer around him as the demon continued to shiver.

"You'll be okay," he promised. "You'll be right as rain soon enough, you know you will."

Empty words that meant nothing to Crowley, he was sure. Not after everything. Not after what they had done to him. Aziraphale bit back another threatening sob, and reached out to run a hand through Crowley's hair in an attempt to offer some comfort. The demon stiffened slightly at first, but as Aziraphale's touch stayed gentle and soothing instead of the violence he had exclusively suffered the last few days, Crowley shivered but relaxed, shifting to rest his head in Aziraphale's lap.

Aziraphale sniffed back the threatening tears but he had to smile a bit as well. Despite being a snake, Crowley had always reminded him more of a cat truthfully. He continued petting the demon's hair as Crowley's eyes closed and his breathing steadied. Aziraphale sniffed back more tears and simply sat there, watching over his friend as he slept and recovered, trying to figure out how he could fix this.

Chapter Text

Crowley was sure he would berate himself for his weakness later, but he couldn't stand the thought of being left alone again, not even for a minute. The glow of Aziraphale's angelic light was the only thing keeping him from having a panic attack, the only thing reminding him that he was safe that he wasn't in Hell anymore.

It was almost easier not being able to ask Aziraphale to stay, and he was grateful the angel understood. He could tell how upset Aziraphale was at his condition, and he knew the idiot was probably beating himself up about taking any amount of time to come rescue him.

He curled close to Aziraphale's soft light, and heard a shuddering breath from the angel before fingers gently carded through Crowley's hair. The demon stiffened and Aziraphale stopped, but then started again and Crowley found the angel's fingers against his scalp soothing. His body finally started to relax, the shuddering becoming more minute, and he was able to breathe better again.

He finally moved even closer, resting his head in Aziraphale's lap, clutching his blanket around him as he tried to will himself to sleep. He didn't want to think about what would come later, about how he would ever go about fixing any of this so he could even get a taste of his old like back. All that mattered now was that, for the moment, he was safe, and that would have to be enough.

~~~~~~~~

Crowley hung in chains as Malebranche stood in front of him with a knife, gleefully carving the feathers from his wings. Black plumes floated down and collected in piles at his feet.

"You don't need these anymore anyway, Crowley," he said. "You're a demon, after all, we really don't have need of feathers and wings. Never going back to Heaven again, are we?"

Crowley cried out as pain tore through him. Malebranche had moved behind him, pressing the blade against the joint where his wing met his back. "We'll just get rid of these pesky things all together. Then you can't get away from me."

Hastur appeared then, a grin on his face. "Guess who's coming? Crowley's favorite angel. Shall we give him a welcome party?"

Crowley's eyes widened in horror. He looked out the door seeing a long hallway and Aziraphale at the end of it coming closer, and closer. Shining like a beacon and carrying that stupid flaming sword. Crowley tried to scream at him to go, to run, as Hastur gathered more demons to ambush him when he finally arrived. But no sound besides a strangled choke came from Crowley's throat. He tried and tried as Aziraphale strode closer, unknowingly walking right into a trap.

Malebranche held on to him, forcing him to watch what was coming. "He wants to save you, but he can't. You're still mine. And always will be."

Tears of frustration and fury fell from Crowley's eyes as he was forced to watch his best friend enter the room, just as Hastur pounced…

~~~~~~~

Crowley started awake, whimpering. His chest heaving with frantic breaths, straining wounds and bruises. His throat ached horribly and he reached up to claw at it, half expecting to find Malebranche's dagger there.

"Crowley, stop, you're safe!" A hand pulled his own away from his throat and he looked up, panicked, to see Aziraphale. Horror washed over him for a second, thinking Hastur was about to grab the angel from behind, but as his eyes flew around the room, he realized that he was not still in hell. In fact, he was in a small room lying in a comfortable bed under a patchwork quilt, and books were piled against every wall. He relaxed finally. He was in Aziraphale's shop, though in a room he hadn't realized was there. It must be part of the upstairs apartment. He just vaguely remembered being put in a bed earlier.

He finally focused on Aziraphale again. The angel looked concerned, leaning over the bed, one hand on Crowley's shoulder as if to steady him. Crowley swallowed hard, but his throat hurt so much. He opened his mouth to speak, but only a painful croak came out and he clutched his throat.

"Crowley, don't talk," Aziraphale fussed, straightening up. "Your burns…let me get you something that might help."

Crowley watched him leave the room, feeling slightly uncomfortable being left alone. Actually, really, he was more worried about Aziraphale hiding him. What if the demons tracked them here? He didn't want that nightmare to become reality. He couldn't remember much of anything about how he had ended up here. He definitely remembered Aziraphale barging into his torture cell, glowing like anything. Then the next thing he had been aware of was Aziraphale getting him out of his chains and he vaguely remembered the trip to the bookshop—wait, had Aziraphale driven the Bentley? And then the painful wound tending, of course. Crowley had so many questions that he couldn't even ask.

He shifted, trying to sit up, but his body screamed at him, forcing him back down. His back simply felt like his spine was being ripped out of his body, even though he knew it was only from the lashing. And his wings, of course. They ached even on the ethereal plane.

He was still relieved when Aziraphale came back in with a tray, which he set on the bedside table.

"I didn't think hot tea or cocoa would be the best, but I brought you cold milk and honey," Aziraphale said. "That will soothe your tongue and throat."

Crowley tried once again to sit up, but this time Aziraphale hurried to help. Just the act of the angel helping prop him against the pillows hurt. Every part of him was aching, but the pillows were soft, and Aziraphale plumped them just right, pulling the blanket over his lap before placing the mug of milk into his hands.

Crowley took a cautious sip, thinking it would still hurt terribly, but it actually didn't. In fact, the cool milk felt amazing on his mouth and throat, working with the honey to coat the burns and cool them off. It also tasted rather nice.

"Is it all right?" Aziraphale asked anxiously.

Crowley nodded and continued sipping the drink.

Aziraphale watched him for a couple seconds than retrieved the cup of tea he had brought for himself and sat in a chair that had been pulled over to the side of the bed.

He turned to a stack of books sitting on the floor beside him. "I could read to you if you want. I'm afraid there's not much else to do."

Crowley nodded again. He would like to be reminded he was safe, and sitting alone in the room didn't seem like an enjoyable option.

Aziraphale bent and plucked a book from the pile beside him. He opened it, cleared his throat, and began to read.

Crowley drank his milk and tried to concentrate on the story, but his mind kept shifting to his torment. It was hard to forget when every fraction he moved felt like Malebranche's knifes were sliding into him again.

He turned to studying Aziraphale, looking over the angel for any hurts, and that's when he noticed why there was something different about him. He was wearing all black.

Crowley made a noise and Aziraphale looked up, pausing in his narrative. "Can I get you something, dear? Are you all right?"

Crowley frowned and pointed to Aziraphale's clothing. It actually looked rather familiar, now that he thought about it.

"Oh, yes, I forgot I hadn't changed yet," Aziraphale said, seeming a little embarrassed. "I hope you don't mind, but I borrowed some of your clothes to blend in better in, er, Hell." He seemed hesitant to say it, glancing worriedly at Crowley as if even the word would be a trigger to him. It didn't matter, Crowley wanted to tell him. It wasn't like he could forget even for a second.

"I'll change if it bothers you, I might still smell like…Down There," Aziraphale said quickly, already half out of his seat.

Crowley shook his head though. It wasn't that, he couldn't really tell anyway; the scent of sulfur and brimstone had been burned into his nose. It was more that he didn't like to see the angel wearing black. It just didn't suit him. It made Crowley uncomfortable. Aziraphale had already done too much by literally going to Hell to rescue him and now hiding him in his own place. It wasn't safe for the angel. What would happen if Heaven cast him out? Neither of them would have anywhere to go then. Crowley didn't want to see that happen to Aziraphale. The only thing giving him any relief was seeing the angel's halo glowing just as healthily as usual.

The angel set his book aside, studying him with a face that looked close to breaking.

"Perhaps I should change your bandages," Aziraphale said quickly, standing up. "Make sure the wounds aren't festering. That certainly wouldn't do you any good right now."

Crowley tried to shake his head, frustrated. He needed answers out of Aziraphale and he wasn't sure how to get them.

"Crowley, please, you must…"

Crowley set his empty mug down on the side table and grabbed Aziraphale's hand. The angel leaned over, attentive.

"Yes, Crowley, what can I do for you?" he asked.

Crowley turned his hand over and started tracing letters on his palm. Aziraphale sat down on the side of the bed, to make the angle more comfortable as he concentrated on what Crowley was trying to get across.

How did you find me? Crowley spelled out.

Aziraphale sighed. "Crowley, I'm not sure if this is the best time…"

Crowley glowered up at him, jabbing his finger into Aziraphale's palm insistently. The angel bit his lip and finally spoke.

"You seemed so worried when we spoke that I went to your apartment to check up on you. I could tell demons had been there. I knew of a back portal into…Hell…and got in that way, disguising myself as well as I could." He gestured to his attire.

Crowley remembered the shocking brightness when Aziraphale had been there. He made a scoffing sound in his throat, taking the pain when he saw the indignation on Aziraphale's face.

"I concealed my halo for the most part!" the angel said, shifting uncomfortably.

Crowley rolled his eyes and started tracing again.

How did you get me out?

Aziraphale shifted again, looking even more uncomfortable. "I—well, I found you there, and I got you out of the chains, remember?"

Crowley glowered at him, tracing insistently. Malebranche. Where is he?

Aziraphale heaved a sigh. "Oh, Crowley, I had to—I had to kill him."

Crowley's eyes blew wide, clutching Aziraphale's wrist so tight the angel tugged against his grip. The demon pointed a shaking finger at the angel to inquire you?!

Aziraphale looked away. "I had to, Crowley. I had to save you."

Crowley snapped himself out of his stupor and started tracing frantically on Aziraphale's palm. You killed him and were stupid enough to come back here? How many others saw you?

"What was I supposed to do?" Aziraphale demanded. "I couldn't leave you there. You didn't deserve that just for saving my life! If I hadn't killed him, he would never have stopped coming after you!"

And Hastur still is! Crowley insisted. Stupid! He added with an insistent poke into Aziraphale's chest to indicate just who he was directing the insult at.

The angel drew himself up, straightening his shoulders and yanking his hand away from Crowley, indignant. "Stupid? Like you crossing consecrated ground to get holy water to help heal me? Crowley, we're friends, aren't we? After everything we've been through, why do you think it's so surprising that I did this?"

Because Aziraphale wasn't supposed to go around killing people. Other angels might, but Aziraphale didn't, even when it came to demons. Aziraphale was the one who gave up his flaming sword to an expecting couple, he was the one who made even Sir Galahad look boorish. Who got caught in Revolutionary France because he wanted bloody crepes! He didn't launch rescue missions to Hell and kill demons!

A thousand different things poured through Crowley, things he wished he could express, but yet didn't have the ability to at the moment. So all he could do was look away. He wasn't sure he would ever forgive Aziraphale putting himself in danger for him like that. The angel just didn't know. At least now he saw what Hell had done to Crowley, which might give him a little bit of a pause. But if Hastur got his hands on the angel…Crowley couldn't survive knowing that could happen now. That any minute a hoard of demons could show up at the bookshop and drag both of them back to Hell.

And that was only one outcome. What if Heaven heard about this? Leaking information Upstairs seemed like the kind of thing Hastur might do to spite him for escaping before he could finish his fun. He could only imagine Hastur meeting with the angels, telling them how one of their own had come and stolen away a demon who was supposed to be punished. At best Aziraphale would be cast out, at worst…Crowley wasn't convinced Heaven didn't have a prison of its own. They were righteous, after all. And righteous usually meant corporal punishment of some nature.

"Crowley…"

Aziraphale's pleading voice cut through his inner turmoil and Crowley simply turned to him with a snarl, shoving him in the chest. Aziraphale stumbled off the side of the bed, looking shocked at Crowley's anger. Stupid angel still didn't get it.

"My dear, what…"

Crowley shoved him again before slouching into the bed, turning his back to Aziraphale and pulling the covers over his head.

There was a pause before the angel stood. Crowley heard him collecting the cups. "Very well, I…I suppose I'll let you rest then."

Crowley felt a pang of remorse. Aziraphale obviously didn't understand why he was mad, but he had no voice to explain anything right now.

He was only sure of one thing. He had to get out of there as soon as possible before the demons showed up and took them both.

~~~~~~~

Aziraphale distractedly did the washing up, fretting as he replayed the conversation with Crowley over and over again. He was sure he didn't know why the demon was so upset that he had saved him. After all, Crowley had been terrified thinking the demons were after him before all this. But maybe he was just scared they would be able to find him again. Aziraphale thought that was a valid fear, though he had several precautions that kept his bookshop concealed from unwanted visitors. It wouldn't keep Heaven out if they came to check up on him, though, which he hoped wouldn't happen. At this point he wasn't sure who he wanted less to show up on his doorstep: Heaven or Hell.

Which reminded him…he had other things to worry about than Crowley's anger. Crowley was safe for now. It was Aziraphale's job to figure out how to make sure he stayed that way. He was trying to think of a way he could bend this situation to make it look like Crowley had been a victim, falsely accused. Of course, he wasn't really sure it would hold up, but it was better than nothing.

Aziraphale made himself another cup of tea and went to sit at his desk in the back room. He pulled out parchment and his favorite fountain pen and started drafting a letter. He glanced over at a stack of books, a spy thriller catching his eye and inspiration struck. What if he played it off like Crowley had been a double agent? A Demon working with an angel to get information, while the angel did the same thing? Crowley would have been reluctant to lose his contact when Malebranche came for them the first time, close to finding out important information and obviously couldn't say as much in front of his contact, being so deep under cover. The angel on the other hand, maybe thought he let one too many things slip so when the demon was dragged back to Hell, he was forced to go retrieve him before he spilled. That would account for him killing Malebranche too, in the fear that Crowley had confessed. Thus making this whole thing a big misunderstanding.

Aziraphale scribbled out the confession, editing here and there as the hours passed. It wasn't perfect but he had something to work with once Crowley was well enough to offer his own input. Now the only problem was how to get it to the proper parties. And how to lend weight to his story.

He was distracted though, as he heard something tumble—a pile of books most likely—at the front of the shop. Aziraphale nearly jumped out of his skin. Perhaps Crowley was right and the other demons were coming!

He looked around and grabbed his sword, which he had kept close to hand since he'd gotten back with Crowley, proceeding cautiously out to the main room.

"Hello?" he called. "I warn you, I'm armed!"

There was a shuffling and Aziraphale pinpointed the sound, cautiously stepping over to its origin point, sword raised.

"Got you—Oh!"

It was a demon, but a friendly one. Aziraphale found Crowley lying among a pile of overturned books close to the stairs, pale and looking horrible. Aziraphale quickly set the sword aside and knelt to start unearthing his friend.

"What on earth are you doing out of bed, Crowley? You're badly injured!"

Crowley just lay there. Aziraphale was honestly not sure how he had gotten all the way down the stairs before taking a tumble. Crowley must have tried to use an unwieldy stack of books for support and it had collapsed on top of him. They had been known to do that to everyone but Aziraphale.

He finally unearthed the demon and reached down to help him to his feet.

"Come on now, let's get you back upstairs."

Crowley shoved his hand away though, shaking his head. Aziraphale opened his mouth to protest but Crowley pointed toward the front door of the shop, struggling to get onto his knees.

Aziraphale put his foot down. "Absolutely not!" he said. "What do you think you're going to do out there? You can barely even stand!"

Crowley made a distressed sound in his throat, his eyes wide as he finally managed to sit up. He pointed to himself insistently then reached out and ran a finger across Aziraphale's throat, miming a knife.

The angel sighed, simply grabbing the demon's hand. "Oh, Crowley, you're not going to get me killed! Stop this nonsense! Look, I'm working on a way to fix this, but you need to be in bed so you can recover. Please!"

Crowley fought as Aziraphale tried to help him to his feet. He may not be in the best condition, but he was determined, and as Aziraphale tried to keep Crowley from wriggling away from him while attempting not to hurt him more, the angel tripped over some of the books still on the ground and they both went down this time.

At least it was Aziraphale's back that hit the bookcase and Crowley sprawled over him, though the books, in turn, fell on top of the demon again. Aziraphale tried to remove them, but Crowley was trembling and making choked noises, one hand clutched in Aziraphale's sweater. It took Aziraphale a moment to realize the demon was crying.

"Oh, Crowley," he said, his heart aching, as he quickly shoved the books aside and pushed himself to his knees, gathering his friend into an embrace, unable to help himself. Crowley tried to fight against him for a minute, then finally sagged, head resting on Aziraphale's shoulder. Aziraphale cradled him gently, a hand on the back of his neck.

"It's all right," he murmured. "Everything will be all right."

Crowley shook his head, sniffling into the angel's cardigan, and Aziraphale sighed, patting his back as gently as possible, just letting Crowley work it out. He tried to hide how much this was distressing him seeing the demon like this. He had been trying to just keep himself occupied with caring for Crowley and trying to right this horrible situation so he wouldn't dwell on just how much his friend had gone through. He knew that if he thought about it too much, it might just break him.

But Crowley was the one who was truly broken at the moment, and Aziraphale would stay strong for him. They were all each other had, after all. Especially now when it seemed Crowley didn't seem to have anywhere else to go where he would be safe. Aziraphale was determined to fix that though. Not because Crowley was particularly fond of Hell, Aziraphale knew it was just a job for him, just the place he worked. But if his plan kept the demon from being hunted for the rest of eternity, then that at least was something. And he just hoped he wouldn't get caught by Heaven in the process.

He finally felt Crowley slump more heavily against him and he had stopped shuddering with the chocking sobs. Without a word, Aziraphale pushed himself up and drew Crowley onto his feet. The demon wobbled and latched onto him, and Aziraphale helped him back upstairs, this time without protest.

Crowley seemed glad to see the bed again and slumped down gratefully. Aziraphale hurried back down the stairs and grabbed another cup of the milk and honey, handing it to the demon.

"Here, dear, have this, and you'll feel a little better."

Crowley accepted the cup, looking down at his lap as Aziraphale took the seat by the bed again, leaning forward, half afraid that Crowley would try to bolt again.

"That was rather silly of you, you know," he scolded gently. "As if I would worry about you bringing trouble here, when I was the one who rescued you in the first place. If anything, I should be worried they'll come for me on their own."

Crowley stiffened at that declaration, and Aziraphale sighed. "You're safe here, Crowley. We both are. For a while at least. You're always saying how Hell isn't very bright. Even Hastur doesn't know about my bookshop, does he?"

Crowley shrugged, concentrating on his drink.

"Anyway," Aziraphale said, trying to sound optimistic. "I'm working on something that will hopefully play this off as nothing more than a misunderstanding. I'll tell you more about it later when you're feeling better."

Crowley paled slightly, his jaw clenched and he put the cup aside. Aziraphale frowned.

"Crowley? Did I say something wrong?"

The demon stayed there for a long second before he grabbed Aziraphale's hand and started tracing letters there again.

It's not just a misunderstanding.

Aziraphale understood instantly and felt rather wretched. "Oh, no, Crowley, I didn't mean…I only meant that they would think that a mistake had been made that never should have been done. What happened to you…" He swallowed hard. "I know that was no misunderstanding. That was simple cruelty. I saw it in Malebranche's eyes and I know Hastur has had something against you for a while now, hasn't he?"

Crowley slumped on the bed, hands fisted in the blankets, still incredibly tense.

Aziraphale noticed then that a couple spots of blood had appeared on his clothes, probably due to his fall.

Aziraphale stood and shifted so he could sit on the side of the bed, trying to get Crowley to look at him. "Crowley, let me re-dress some of your wounds and check the bandages. You may have opened several back up in your tumble."

Crowley grunted but didn't protest. Aziraphale took up his first aid kit again, which was rather low on supplies now, and helped Crowley unbutton the pajama top. He winced in sympathy as he saw that several of the bandages did have quite a few spots of red seeping through. It took him a while to re-dress the worst of the injuries and change the bandages, checking to make sure the ones that had started to look infected hadn't gotten any worse. By the time he was done, Crowley looked exhausted once again, and slumped forward, elbows on his drawn-up knees.

"Here now, Crowley, you should rest again," Aziraphale coaxed as he cleaned up. "How about I groom your wings for you? That will help you relax and probably make them feel a little better."

Crowley looked like he might protest, but then his shoulders drooped and he closed his eyes briefly before his made his wings appear with a choked off gasp. Aziraphale could tell they still pained him greatly, and they really did look awful. The feathers that remained were every which way. At least the wounds had scabbed over and looked like they were starting to heal, though.

Aziraphale gently helped Crowley lay on his stomach, cushioned with pillows, and tutted quietly over his poor wings as he perched on the side of the bed and gently settled one of Crowley's feathered appendages over his knee.

"I'm afraid this may not do all that much, but it will at least help a little," he said as he began smoothing out coverts and the smaller feathers near the top of Crowley's wing, which were pointing every which way, before moving down to the tattered primaries. They were very dry, likely a result of both the treatment and the trauma, but Aziraphale worked the natural oils through them, repairing the barbs and making Crowley's feathers smooth and glossy again, all while being as careful as possible to not aggravate the wounded areas.

By the time he had moved on to the second wing, Crowley was nodding off. Aziraphale noticed and paused, glancing toward the demon.

"Would you like me to stop for now, dear?" he asked.

Crowley blinked slowly and shook his head, clutching the pillow under his cheek tighter.

Aziraphale dutifully went back to work, and soon Crowley's wings looked, while not perfect, at least better than they had.

Crowley himself was fast asleep and Aziraphale gently tucked his wings up against his back so they wouldn't sprawl over the sides of the bed. Crowley shifted so that they were covering him comfortably, curling up under them like a blanket.

Aziraphale returned to the chair by the bed, settling in for another long vigil.

Chapter Text

The next week was not easy. Crowley wasn't sure he'd had a worse week ever and considering he'd been on earth during the dark ages, that was saying something.

Everything hurt so much for the first couple days that he had mostly just tried to sleep it off. If he could sleep. Between the nightmares and just the pain he was experiencing, there wasn't much rest for him. Perhaps it was true what they said, "no rest for the wicked", except Crowley had never really described himself as necessarily wicked.

And then there was the angel. Aziraphale stayed with him almost constantly, especially after his deplorably failed escape attempt. He wasn't really sure whether the angel saw himself as his guard or his caretaker—probably a little of both. He just knew that Aziraphale was constantly fussing over him to the point where Crowley was getting quite agitated, and stir-crazy. It was even more frustrating that he couldn't voice his annoyance, and he couldn't exactly go very far from bed either because his body wouldn't cooperate. So he had to endure Aziraphale being an overly efficient mother hen, which almost made his situation worse.

But he was still grateful to the angel, his friend, who was always there when he woke from a nightmare, sitting by his bedside, unknowingly offering that soft, comforting glow Aziraphale's halo always put off, which worked to instantly calm Crowley and anchor him. Letting him know exactly where he was and, even more importantly, exactly where he wasn't. It didn't make up for the nightmares really. The countless hours where he relived everything Malebranche had done to him and worse things he thankfully hadn't; not to mention the ones where Aziraphale was there, sometimes on a rack as well, screaming horribly, sometimes standing by indifferently without a halo anymore. Crowley wasn't really sure which scenario was worse.

But when he woke up the angel was always there, usually reading beside his bed, sometimes if the nightmare was particularly bad, he woke to Aziraphale sitting on the bed beside him, shaking him awake, soothing him with kind touches and meaningless words that were still somehow comforting and helped anchor him to the real world again. Crowley didn't know what he had ever done to deserve a friend like this. It really didn't make any sense.

But his wounds healed. The cuts and bruises pretty much faded by the end of the first week to scabs that itched terribly. The holy water burns took longer, but his throat and mouth were healing, and he was eventually able to croak a little, though Aziraphale scolded him when he tried, saying it would only take longer to heal. It did hurt quite a lot still, but Crowley felt it was worth it for being able to speak, even if only a little.

Aziraphale had also told him his plan, when he thought he was recovered enough to hear it.

"It's stupid," Crowley rasped instantly, gulping down a swallow of milk and honey. He had finally convinced Aziraphale to let him have a change of scene so they were in the back room of his shop, Crowley sitting on the couch with a blanket around his shoulders that Aziraphale had insistently tucked around him.

"Is it really that bad?" Aziraphale asked. "What other option do we have, Crowley?"

"Go to another galaxy, maybe," Crowley suggested, not as upset about it as he should be. He had always loved the stars.

Aziraphale sighed in exasperation, obviously not thinking that was a good idea. "Now you're being silly. Look, dear, you've said many times, Hell is not smart. And Heaven, well, they have a miraculous ability for oversight. The fact that they haven't been to see me yet tells me they know nothing about this venture. Which is at least one point in our favor."

"But really, angel, a cheesy spy thriller double agent narrative?" His throat hurt now just from voicing that out loud and simply glowered at the angel to emphasize how that most definitely wasn't him, hoping Aziraphale didn't know why he had gotten those bullet hole decal stickers for his Bentley.

The angel gave him a look back, that told Crowley he knew enough about just how Crowley really felt about cheesy spy thrillers.

"Would it really be so bad if it works?"

"But an angel kidnapping a demon?"

"Why not? You were going to let slip information, I went to get you before that happened. I bring you back and sequester you away, and you finally get free and force me to sign a confession to get you back into Hell's good graces—or, well, bad graces I suppose."

Crowley sighed and slumped, perhaps still not recovered well enough for this.

Aziraphale handed him the letter. "Just read it and tell me what you think."

Crowley did so, and honestly, it didn't sound too bad, especially considering the alternatives. But there was no accounting with Hell. They could totally buy it, or they could simply ignore it entirely and throw Crowley back onto the rack. He found himself shaking with the thought of even going back there. Oh, how he wished he never had to see Hell again.

Aziraphale seemed to notice and took the paper away from him gently, an apologetic look on his face. "We don't have to do this now if you don't want to, Crowley."

But the demon shook his head swiftly. "No, I—I actually think you have a good idea here. Just…let's wait a couple more days."

"Of course," Aziraphale said, seeming relived.

If Crowley were being honest, he was grateful to Aziraphale for this. He was rather fond of Earth, of his flat, of his car, London, humans in general. He didn't want to leave the planet, not really. And he would only seem a coward if he didn't even try this.

He just really hoped it wouldn't come back to bite him.

~~~~~~~

They set it up in a cheap hotel down in the East End. The staging took them a few minutes to get everything to look right. The room itself was dirty and didn't take much to look like a place two supernatural beings had been hiding out in for a couple weeks. Crowley insisted on the cuffs attached to the old radiator sitting on one side of the room and ran them around his wrists violently to make it look like he'd been wearing them for a while. He could at least make Aziraphale seem more cruel than he was for the sake of the ruse even though the angel still seemed to take offence.

They tossed chairs and turned over a lamp to make it look like a struggle had ensued. Aziraphale materialized his wings and shook loose several feathers, as did Crowley. Aziraphale then plucked one of the longer ones and used it to cut open his palm with a wince. He dropped some blood around the room and then dipped the quill in the blood as he turned to the paper with the 'confession' he had written out and spread on the desk.

"Are you sure about this?" he asked Crowley one more time.

The demon still wasn't entirely sure, but he nodded. They'd gone this far, they may as well continue. The angel certainly wasn't allowed to have doubts since he was the one who came up with all of this in the first place.

Aziraphale took a deep breath and signed his name at the bottom. He set the feather on top of it as proof and turned to the demon.

Crowley was suddenly reluctant to be alone, especially with demons coming. And really, could anyone blame him? But he needed to do this if he wanted to have any kind of life in the future where he wasn't constantly hunted.

"Thanks," he said suddenly. "For everything."

Aziraphale gave him a soft smile. "It will be okay, Crowley. We'll get this all settled."

Crowley nodded, biting his lip, knowing he was just delaying the inevitable. "You should go. Get far enough away so they don't sense you."

Aziraphale nodded then, "You'll get in contact with me as soon as you're back on earth, right?"

Crowley nodded. "Yeah, of course. Just uh…don't expect me back any time soon."

"Be careful, Crowley," Aziraphale told him sincerely.

"You too," Crowley muttered and Aziraphale finally, reluctantly, left the room.

Crowley waited a while for Aziraphale to get far enough away, pacing, wondering if he should just forget this whole thing anyway, but finally he got his courage together. He went over to the small radio in the room and turned it on.

~~~~~~~

It didn't take long to get the communication through, and it took even less time for the demons to show up, Hastur, of course, being one of them. They cast bland looks around the scene and Crowley was barely able to snatch up the letter and Aziraphale's feather before he was dragged away, trying to tell his story.

The demons pretended not to hear him. Crowley was dragged back to Hell, but thankfully ended up in front of Lord Beelzebub instead of back in the torture chamber. The demon lord watched him indifferently as he was thrown to his knees.

"Well, Crowley, you finally decide to grace uz with your prezzence again?"

"I can explain everything," Crowley said and launched into the well-rehearsed story, his throat aching from so much talking, but Beelzebub seemed to be listening if not entirely believing everything he said.

Finally, Crowley came to the end and handed over the letter, the "confession" Aziraphale had signed.

"You got the angel to zign thizzzz?" the demon lord buzzed skeptically, even as he turned the feather over in his fingers.

"With his own sword held at his throat," Crowley said, forcing a proud note into his voice even though he was terrified. "Was stupid enough to leave it lying around. I slipped my cuffs and got it, overpowered him."

"He's obviously lying, just like before!" Hastur cut in finally. The Duke had been huffing in agitation at Crowley's back during the entire telling of the tale.

"Before being when Malebranche was punishing him?" Beelzebub asked.

"When I was being unjustly detained," Crowley reminded. "I told them I had been using the angel as an inside source. We'd formed an agreement to share information—I, of course, was leading him on the whole time—I just didn't realize he was doing the same thing with me until it was too late." He glanced back at Hastur with a dark expression he didn't have to fake. "The only reason I ended up down here is because Hastur has had it out for me for as long as I can remember. Jealous of all my commendations and obviously not wanting me to get another big break."

Hastur spluttered. "That is not true, my lord!"

"Silenzzze," Beelzebub cut in sharply then once again fixed Crowley with a stare. "This iz indeed zzigned in angel blood with a genuine angel feather. I see no other reason for this to be the case unlezzz Master Crowley iz indeed telling the truth."

"If he is, then why didn't he say anything about it before?" Hastur demanded.

"I did!" Crowley spat out. "I tried to say I was working as a double agent. But Malebranche started in on the torture before I could get to any of the good stuff and then he poured holy water down my throat so I couldn't talk even if I wanted to!"

Beelzebub sighed and set the confession aside. "In truth, with Malebranche dead, we don't really have any other choice but to see your story az the truth. After all, what other reason would an angel have to come all the way down here and drag a demon off unlezz he wanted to cover something up."

Crowley fought the urge to snort. They were just as dense as Aziraphale had guessed. Of course they would never jump to the conclusion that he and the angel were actually friends.

Hastur squawked in anger. "They've been fraternizing for years! Decades! Maybe longer!"

Or maybe the stupidest one had gotten it right.

"We've been clashing swords," Crowley cut in with a derisive snarl. "That fact that we're both on earth means that we do run into each other periodically. The angel has become something of a nemesis to me. And just look at all the things I've done for Hell! I'm loyal!"

Beelzebub waved a hand to cut off another protest from Hastur. "You are one of our bezzt tempters, Crowley, I will say that. Countlezz commendations have gone your way."

"Thank you," Crowley said, bowing slightly, thinking that might be a good idea considering the circumstances.

"And there will be another one for you if you share the information you gathered from the angel."

"Gladly," Crowley said, thinking fast about exactly what he could come up with to "share" about angels and heaven. Something to make the demons look particularly stupid. "I will write up a full report."

"Very well, you are dizmizzzed," Beelzebub said, waving a hand.

If Crowley had been expecting an apology for his treatment, he would have been disappointed. Obviously, they didn't care about what he had gone through, they thought not putting him back on the rack was apology enough. Crowley felt fury welling up inside of him, but there was little he could do about it. He was shocked their plan had actually succeeded. He was trembling with pent up nerves and he could barely make it out the door.

Hastur and his crony Ligur cornered him in the hallway, and Crowley stopped, glowering at them as he found himself pressed back against the wall.

"You may have fooled Lord Beelzebub with your fancy words and your fancy letter, but you'll never fool me, Crowley," Hastur growled at him, leaning close to his face. "I know the truth, and so did Malebranche. He told me how you defended the angel in the park."

Crowley snarled at the other demon. "And you can't prove anything so get out of my way!" he shoved past him and Ligur, continuing on his way down the hall.

"This isn't over, Crowley!" Hastur called after him.

Crowley shot him a rude gesture, feeling a little better as he did so, and hurried away.

He'd survived this time. Now he just had to make sure he continued to do so.

~~~~~~~

It was nearly a week later when Aziraphale met Crowley in the park again. He sat on a bench reading a book, trying not to look like he was waiting for anyone. He still wasn't sure if it was safe for them to meet in public, but figured it was better than him being seen at Crowley's flat or leading the demons back to the bookshop. Crowley had sent him a message after he'd settled things with Hell as promised, and they had agreed on a time and a place for the meeting. Aziraphale was obviously relieved it had been settled so swiftly, though he wasn't so foolish as to think it would really be that easy. They would have to be quite careful for a while.

Crowley finally showed up, sliding onto the bench next to him and sprawling in his usual nonchalant attitude. Except Aziraphale could tell there was a tense undertone to his actions, a poised wariness. He wore his sunglasses again, but Aziraphale could tell he was scanning the surrounding area. His skin was also pale, and there were still healing bruises and scars visible on his face.

"Crowley," Aziraphale greeted, relief obvious in his voice. "Are you well?"

Crowley shrugged. "I've been better." He glanced over toward the angel. "Your plan worked."

Aziraphale smiled slightly, relieved and a little excited that it had actually gone over. "I told you it would."

Aziraphale could tell Crowley was rolling his eyes even though he couldn't see. "Yes, alright, you're brilliant, is that what you want to hear?"

Aziraphale closed his book gently, waiting a beat before asking, "So everything is…back to normal?"

"I got a commendation," Crowley said. "For information that may or may not be true about angels and Heaven."

Aziraphale cocked his head to one side. "I made a report myself to explain what happened. In case they heard it through other sources, of course."

"And what did Heaven have to say about your capture and subsequent loss of a dangerous criminal?" Crowley asked with a raised eyebrow.

Aziraphale sighed. "I got a 'nice try, do better next time'."

Crowley actually chuckled. "Well, you did manage to lose your prisoner after he outsmarted you and, after everything, still managed to get away with the information you fed him."

"Which, he'll realize isn't at all true soon enough," Aziraphale smiled back then his expression faded as he once again studied Crowley's face with the new scars slowly fading into the pale skin. "Let's hope we can avoid doing something like this again."

"Ngh," Crowley gave a nondescript noise in agreement. He fidgeted for a long moment before he said, not looking at the angel, "You know I wasn't mad you saved me, right?"

Aziraphale was slightly surprised by this admission. Of course, he had known that, but he had never expected Crowley to bring it up. "I know you were worried about what might come of my actions. But I never thought that."

Crowley fidgeted again. "It's just that… knowing you killed Malebranche…on my account…I hoped it wouldn't ruin you."

"Well, it's hardly wrong for an angel to kill a demon," Aziraphale said. "And yes, it was the first time I ever actually killed anyone—at least for sure…face-to-face like that. But…I don't regret it. Not at all. In fact, I think he had it coming."

"He did," Crowley growled. "It's just that…I never wanted you to have to do something like that. Especially for me."

"Oh, but Crowley, that's just what friends, comrades in arms do," Aziraphale told him. "There may come a day when we have to make our own side in things, you know. And we will have to make perhaps…sacrifices of character...to survive."

"I suppose so," Crowley said, a dark look on his face.

Aziraphale smiled, trying to lighten to mood. "But not now, definitely not now. Right now, we're safe again, I think."

"Yes," Crowley muttered, plucking at his coat sleeve, tugging it over the welts still visible on his wrists. "Angel…" He opened his mouth but couldn't seem to get the words out, sitting there floundering until Aziraphale took mercy on him.

"I know, Crowley," he said softly. "You're welcome. But that's just what friends do, remember? That's our Arrangement."

Crowley closed his mouth and gave a small jerky nod. Aziraphale tucked his book inside his jacket, wanting to change the subject before Crowley got too far into whatever dark place he was slipping into. "Perhaps I could take you out for tea? There's a lovely little place not far from here. They make the most delicious Victoria sponge."

Crowley bit his lip. "I'm not sure it's safe. We probably shouldn't even stay here long…"

"Then maybe we can have a nice glass of wine back at my place," Aziraphale suggested. "I'll go first, of course, and you can make sure there's no one around before you just happen to turn up as well."

Crowley seemed to relax, and gave a small, tentative but genuine, smile. "Very well. You've tempted me."

"Oh, now," Aziraphale tutted and stood up, strolling back down the pathway toward the bus stop.

He glanced back once to see Crowley still sitting on the bench, watching the ducks. Aziraphale really hoped his friend would be okay, he was sure Crowley would recover in time, and yet, it felt like something had changed. A veil had been lifted, and normally that was a good thing, but in this case, he wasn't so sure. Maybe things weren't so much black and white as they had been trying to convince themselves of their entire existences, and yet were defying every day just by being friends. He wasn't exactly sure what this meant, or if he even wanted to find out, but he had a feeling it was going to be important someday.

He just hoped that no matter what, he never had to lose his best friend because of it.

But not tonight. Tonight, they would drink wine and reminisce about better times. It would make them both feel better, he was sure. And whatever came next, the only thing he was certain of is that they would be at each other's sides, no matter what.