Chapter Text
“... and to top it all off, we have a special reward for you.”
Crowley was suspicious. When dealing with Hell, it paid to make a habit of being suspicious. It would, as they said, be a funny old world if demons went around trusting each other.
That being said, when a Prince of Hell and his favourite associate showed up on your doorstep offering you a commendation, you didn't drag your feet. You went with them, even if you had been planning on popping by to visit your favourite angel that afternoon. Scratch that, especially if you had been planning on popping by to visit your favourite angel that afternoon.
“Special reward,” said Crowley, trying to sound enthusiastic as he followed Asmodeus and Nyx through the dank corridors of Hell's Head Office. “Sounds fantastic.” It probably wasn't. Demons, by and large, had no imagination and no taste. Although Crowley had to admit that these two were better dressed than most. “What is it? Desk by the window?” (Like all infernal agents, Crowley did, in fact, have a desk at Head Office. One of the advantages of being posted as a full-time field agent on Earth was that he didn't have to use it.)
Nyx scowled at him and muttered something under her breath.
Asmodeus just smiled, showing off a row of flawless white teeth. “Better,” he said. “It's a surprise,” he added.
It seemed to Crowley that they had been walking for a very long time. Not that he generally spent a moment longer than he needed to Downstairs, but he was fairly sure he'd never been through this particular maze of corridors. He was also fairly sure they'd passed through some sort of portal three turns back. Nothing suspicious about this, nope, not at all. His human-shaped body was definitely not starting to sweat. And if it was, it was probably just the heat. In the Basement, the ventilation system is always malfunctioning.
They turned a corner and entered a hallway painted in a pale, institutional green, lit by guttering fluorescent lights and lined with identical unmarked white doors. Each door had a narrow viewing slit set just a bit above eye level, and sigil-enforced locks on the handles. It was spooky, and not in a good way.
“My surprise reward is a visit to a locked ward?” said Crowley.
“Your surprise reward is just down that way,” said Asmodeus, a wicked smile on his lips. “Room three.”
The doors weren't numbered, but the Prince was clearly pointing to the third door on the right. Crowley swallowed.
“Shall I go and take a peek, then?” he asked. But Nyx was already sweeping toward the door, her black feathered gown trailing along the floor behind her. The sigils on the door handle lit up at her touch, and the door swung open. She entered, with Asmodeus behind her. Crowley followed.
His first impression was that the room stank. Not that Hell didn't always smell, a bit, but this was worse than he was accustomed to. This was a smell of pain and rot and other things that demons were supposed to enjoy, but that Crowley had always found a bit nauseating. The walls were grey and water-stained, the floor hard, cracked concrete. The overhead light buzzed and flickered in an irregular rhythm, just barely illuminating three figures in the corner. Two demons, one red-eyed and dark-skinned, the other long-haired with sallow skin so pale it was almost green, were perched on either side of a third figure, pinning it to the floor. Crowley felt the blood drain from his face at the sight of tan fabric and white feathers.
Aziraphale.
“What is this?” he heard himself ask.
“Your greatest enemy,” said Asmodeus. “We know how much trouble he's caused you, all these centuries. We thought you might be interested in a bit of revenge.”
“Huh,” said Crowley, forcing himself to take a step forward. “That, uh, that's very, um. Very thoughtful, guys.” Shit shit shit.
At the sound of Crowley's voice, the angel had stopped struggling and gone very still. Slowly, he raised his head and turned it toward Crowley. There was a purplish bruise spreading across his cheekbone, and golden blood matting his blond hair. When he met Crowley's gaze, his eyes lit up for just a moment, before they narrowed, ever so slightly, his mouth settling into a grim line.
Don't look at me like that, Crowley wanted to say. I never asked for this!
“Why's he on the ground?” he asked.
“You don't like it, seeing him like that?” Crowley did not like the tone of Nyx's voice.
“I prefer to look my enemies in the face,” said Crowley, which was not at all true. When it came to his actual enemies, Crowley was, in fact, a big fan of sucker punching them and then running away very very fast. “Let him up.”
The two demons who were holding Aziraphale down looked up at Asmodeus for confirmation. The Prince nodded. They immediately let go and jumped back, giving the injured angel a wide berth. Crowley could see now that the pale one had a bruise to match Aziraphale's, spreading across her cheekbone in a near mirror-image. Crowley bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from smiling at the sight. His angel had put up a fight.
Aziraphale lay where he was for a moment, then pushed himself up onto his knees before sitting back on his heels. A set of heavy manacles bound his wrists. Runes engraved into the iron glowed with a faint, reddish light. The chain that bound them together limited his range of motion, but the runes were the real restraint. They ensured that there would be no convenient angelic miracles as long as he wore them.
“Hello, Crowley,” he said. His tone was flat, giving nothing away.
“Angel,” said Crowley, his tone equally expressionless. I didn't want this, you know I didn't want this, don't you?
“I'm afraid your friends here have rather interfered with my plans for the morning,” said Aziraphale.
“Sorry to hear it,” said Crowley. He forced himself to smirk. Aziraphale responded with a very convincing glare. “Get up,” said Crowley.
Aziraphale hesitated a moment before getting to his feet. Crowley circled him, slowly, trying to appear intrigued rather than worried, looking for any more evidence of injury. The angel's wings were out, which under the circumstances was probably not a good sign, but they appeared unharmed. The sleeve of his sky-blue shirt was torn, his ridiculous little tartan bowtie was askew, and his trousers looked as though he'd been dragged through a gravel pit. Some of the blood in his hair had run down the side of his face and was staining his collar. He stood straight, shoulders squared, but Crowley had known him long enough to be able to tell that he was favouring his right leg a little. Crowley paused, looking at the angel thoughtfully, then, abruptly, he grabbed Aziraphale by the back of his collar and shoved him face-first against the wall.
It was a rough shove, but not as rough as he hoped it had looked. Crowley leaned forward, his body half-hidden between Aziraphale's wings, his lips just a fraction of an inch from the angel's ear.
“What the Heaven is going on here, angel?” he hissed, his voice pitched low so that none of the other demons would hear it.
“How the devil should I know?” Aziraphale hissed back. “These are your people, not mine.”
Crowley pressed him harder against the wall. “I didn't ask for this,” he whispered. “You know that, right?”
Aziraphale made a wordless noise that conveyed of course I know that, you dunce with surprising eloquence.
“I'm going to find a way to get you out of here,” Crowley whispered. “That's a promise.”
“I believe you,” Aziraphale whispered back.
“Right,” said Crowley, then, with another more-dramatic-than-rough shove, he released the angel and took a step back. “Here's the problem,” he said, turning to face the other demons in the room. “I had no idea this was coming, yeah? You lot thoroughly surprised me. Well done, by the way.” He looked back at Aziraphale, who had turned and was leaning against the wall, looking very pale and very serious. “My problem is this,” Crowley babbled. “You don't get an opportunity like this every day. I've got my, my ... my mortal enemy here, and I can do whatever I want to him. Very exciting, very... um. Very something. Point is! Point is, I need to give it some thought. Want to make the most of it, yeah?”
“So you aren't going to do anything to him just yet?” Nyx frowned. “How very ... dull.”
“You soft on this angel, Crowley?” Asmodeus's tone was mocking, but there was something hard in his eyes.
“Soft? Me?” Crowley scoffed. “M'not soft. Just, like I said. Don't want to waste this opportunity.”
“Oh, come now, Crowley,” said Nyx. “You don't want to give him just a little taste of what you might have in store for him?” She advanced toward Aziraphale, who was watching her nervously. “I know what I would do,” she said, shooting a pointed look at Asmodeus. “I always have the same thought whenever I see an angel.” Her voice had taken on a singsong quality. “Ever ... since ... I ... Fell.” On the last word, one reached out and grabbed hold of Aziraphale's right wing. “Such pretty feathers,” she said, dragging her thumb roughly across a row of coverts. “Such fragile bones.” She squeezed then, and a sickening crunch filled the room as radius and ulna were crushed in her grip. Aziraphale gasped. His knees buckled for a moment, but he remained standing.
As intently as Nyx was watching Aziraphale's reaction, Asmodeus was watching Crowley. He hoped his face hadn't given him away. He allowed himself a split second to think about how he ought to react. Then he hissed, and glared at Nyx.
“You ssssaid he was mine,” said Crowley.
Nyx turned to look at him, an inscrutable smile on her face.
Crowley allowed a little whine to colour his words. “Mine, to do with as I please.”
“And you would prefer not to break his wings?”
“If there are wingsssss to be broken, I'd prefer to be the one doing the breaking.”
Nyx took a graceful step back. “By all means,” she said. “He has another wing.”
Crowley looked from Nyx to Aziraphale, whose right wing was now trailing limply behind him. He looked back at Asmodeus, who was eyeing him appraisingly.
This was a test of some sort. Had to be.
“Oh, come now, Crowley.” Crowley's turned back at the sound of Aziraphale's voice. The angel's jaw was set, his eyes gone very hard. His skin was ashen, the only indication of how much pain he must be in. He sneered. Who would have guessed the angel was even capable of a sneer? “What are a few broken bones between old friends?” Aziraphale said. “Go, on, do your worst.” His tone was defiant, but his words... Crowley understood exactly what Aziraphale was trying to tell him. He met the angel's eyes and gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
“If that's what you want,” he said, striding forward and seizing delicate wing bones in both hands. I'm sorry, angel.
“Do it,” said Aziraphale, when Crowley hesitated. Crowley tightened his grip, and ... pulled. He felt the bone snap. A clean break, or so he hoped. A pained little yelp escaped from Aziraphale's throat, and he sagged forward, half-leaning against Crowley's shoulder. “I'm okay,” he murmured, his voice barely audible. Then he pushed away, straightening.
“You're looking rather rough, angel,” said Crowley. “Maybe you should sit down.”
“An excellent idea,” said Aziraphale, unable to hide the strain in his voice. “Perhaps you'd be so kind as to bring me a chair?”
“Funny,” said Crowley. He turned back to the other demons. “Have I passed your little test?” he asked. There was venom in his voice that he didn't bother trying to hide. “Because if I have, I'd like to take a little time out here, and give some thought to what I'd actually like to do with my new toy.”
“As you like,” said Asmodeus. A slight smile sat at the edge of the Prince's lips.
One by one, the assembled demons filed out of the little cell. Although it pained him not to, Crowley didn't look back.
As soon as the door was shut and sealed behind them, Asmodeus dismissed the others. The two nameless demons followed in Nyx's wake as she swept off down the hallway and out of sight.
“You think we were testing you,” said Asmodeus.
“Are you implying that you weren't?”
“A secondary consideration,” said the Prince. “Come with me.”
Crowley followed him, past the rows of unmarked doors and around a corner, to where a great stone archway stood. They passed through the archway into a small chamber, containing a heavy stone desk, a rather imposing throne, a scattering of ornate plush couches, and a great deal of deeply unsettling artwork. The effect would have been one of overcrowded, sadistic decadence but for the flickering fluorescent lighting, which made the whole thing feel just ... seedy.
“This is your office, then?” Crowley had never seen it before. Never had reason to. He didn't report to Asmodeus; he reported to Beelzebub. Yet another reason why this was all so strange.
“It is,” said Asmodeus. He reached under the desk and withdrew a bottle. “Care for a drink?” Without waiting for an answer, he snapped his fingers and called up two glasses. He poured out the dark red wine and handed one to Crowley. Crowley sniffed it suspiciously. Just wine. He took a tentative sip. It was a decent vintage, if a little bit sweet for his taste.
“So,” said Crowley. “What is this really all about? I get the feeling you want something from me.”
“Nothing yet,” said Asmodeus. He took a sip from his own glass. “But I've had my eye on you, Crowley. I have an eye for ... taste. I respect a demon who takes care of himself. Too many of our kind are content to walk around covered in grave dirt, smelling of mildew, or worse.”
“And?”
“As I said,” said the Prince. “I don't want anything from you yet. I'm just hoping you'll remember this one day.”
So that was his game. An unasked-for favour, leaving him with an unspecified debt.
“It's generally not done,” said Crowley, “snatching angels from the street, or whatever it was that your people did.”
Asmodeus arched an eyebrow at him. “No,” he said. “It isn't.” He swirled the wine in his glass. “But maybe it should be.”
Interesting. Crowley met the Prince's gaze levelly, but didn't speak.
“So,” said Asmodeus. “Have you decided yet what you're going to do with your angel?”
“I'm going to have to think about it some more,” said Crowley, trying not to bristle at your angel. Aziraphale was his angel, bless it, but not like that. “Won't hurt to keep him waiting,” he added. “Let him have some time to worry about what's in store for him.”
“I know what you want to do to him,” said Asmodeus, a sly smile curving his lips.
“Do you?” Crowley was once again starting to sweat with the effort of trying to keep his cool. Or maybe it really was just a problem with the heating system down here.
“It was obvious from the moment you two laid eyes on each other,” said the Prince. “I could smell it.”
“Smell it? Smell what?”
Asmodeus gave Crowley a wicked grin. “Not so surprising really, given the way two of you have been pursuing each other all these centuries,” he said.
“What?” Crowley could feel panic rising in the back of his throat.
“Lust,” said Asmodeus.
Oh, fuck.
The ability of your average, everyday demon to sense sin is overstated. If they're actively looking for sin, most demons can find it, but it takes some effort, and without context clues, most of them can't tell exactly what sort of sin they've found.
Asmodeus, however, was not an average, everyday demon. Not only was he among the highest-ranking demons in Hell; he was a specialist.
Demon of Lust.
“You look ... surprised,” said the Prince.
“Ngk,” said Crowley.
Asmodeus studied him for a moment, then let out a loud, full-throated laugh. “Oh, don't tell me,” he said.
“Wh– what?”
“Oh, how positively delicious,” said Asmodeus. “It wasn't coming from you.”
“I– what?”
“Crowley,” said Asmodeus, clapping a hand down on his shoulder. “If the lust I sensed wasn't coming from you, it must have been coming from the angel.” He giggled. Giggled. “The angel wants to fuck you. Or maybe he wants it the other way around, hmm?”
Crowley's mouth opened and closed a few times. Asmodeus's original assumption about the source of the lust had been the correct one, of course. Crowley had been having ... thoughts ... about Aziraphale for a very, very long time. But if Asmodeus couldn't tell...
And there it was. Not a plan, exactly, but a cracked door, with a light shining through the crack, hinting at the possibility of a plan to be found somewhere beyond it.
Crowley plastered on a big, toothy smile. “Is that so?” he said.