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Paris, 1793
“If my people hear I rescued an angel, I’ll be the one in trouble. And my lot do not send rude notes.”
He had been so careful, or at least he thought he had been careful. But word spread quickly when demons hid in the shadows, and in Paris there were more shadows than light. So even though Crowley had taken every precaution, blending in in dress and speech, even convincing his angel to go to a slightly less public creperie, they still found him. At least they’d had the respect to wait until after their lunch, but Crowley suspected that that had been more to avoid a direct conflict with Heaven, than it had been to show him any dignity.
No, he doubted that his dignity had crossed the minds of his fellow demons, as they ambushed him in the dank Parisian alleyway. Swirling black smoke surrounded him, billowing up and engulfing his world in darkness, and the overwhelming stench of sulphur, before he came to, tied to a stiff wooden chair. His perfectly pinned rolls fell around his face, and he could feel the warmth of the room around him. A sharp slap to his cheek woke him the rest of the way, and he could see in the flickering light that he was not, in fact, back in Hell. Instead, he was in his own room, in a small inn in the heart of the city. A small comfort at least.
Less comforting was the figure standing before him, only partially lit by the fire that had been lit in the hearth. Clad in black and wearing a small revolutionary rosette, Hastur stood in his room, flanked on either side by two minor demons. Crowley had never bothered to learn their names.
“Bonjour, gents.” Crowley said, trying to muster up a bit of humour, hoping to get out of this with as little fanfare, and paperwork, as possible.
“Cut the act, demon Crowley.” Hastur responded. Evidently, he was wasting no time getting to the chase.
“Okay, look, Hastur, I can explain-”
“Really? You can explain why Orias and Sabnock here found you... cavorting with a principality ?”
“Right, names, there it is.” Crowley mumbled. “Uh..yeah, sure I can explain that. Well, you see I was just trying to...ah, tempt him?”
“Tempt an angel?” The demon to Hastur’s right (maybe that one was Orias) slunk towards Crowely, all slime and filth, and sneered into his ear. “Wasting time trying to do the impossible?”
“Everything’s impossible until it isn’t.” Crowley retorted. “Been bored up here, you know, so I thought I’d give it a try. See if I can get one to fall. A dishonourable deed to be respected, if I do say so myself, even if it didn’t quite work out. Eh, Hastur.” He let out a shaky laugh.
Hastur said nothing in response. Instead, he took a couple slow, deliberate steps towards the tied up demon, grabbing his chin and tilting it up, meeting Crowley’s eyes. Then, without a word, he let Crowley’s head drop, and walked over to the hearth. The other two demons began to cackle, the sound of their shrieks filling the room, and indeed the whole building, with a sense of dread so deep that you could drown in it.
“You know,” Hastur said, bending down before the hearth, and poking at the flames with a steel rod, “I don’t actually believe you. Do you want to know why?” He stood up and dropped the rod back into the flames. “Because they heard you laughing, Crowley. They saw you smile. And demons know what temptation looks like. And neither of my... friends here saw an ounce of it in your eyes when you looked at him. So no, demon Crowley, you didn’t rescue that principality from the Bastille so you could tempt him to fall. You did it because you like him. Because you’re friends with him. Why you think he might like you back, I’ll never know. But I don’t care. It seems that you’ve forgotten whose side you're on. Let’s give him a little reminder, eh boys?”
The other two demons escalated their shrieks, banshee cries that filled the whole of the street with horror that would haunt mortal dreams for days. They swirled around Crowley once more, scratching at him with razor claws, and tearing apart his shirt, leaving his left shoulder exposed. Then, taking their solid forms again, they returned to flank Hastur, with fanged smiles wide and sinister as they awaited what would come next.
“That all you got?” Crowley asked, taunting and jabbing until the end.
“Oh no, I have much more.” He walked around to a table in Crowley’s empty kitchen, where another fire poker was laid, next to a stone bowl. “You know, I had thought of being almost cliche,” Hastur continued, picking up the poker, “Branding you with a bit of fire. Show you your place and be on with it. I do love fire. But then I remembered. Fire will heal. Fire will barely hurt you. But this , now this will do just the trick. A more... lasting reminder of who you belong to.” Hastur dipped the rod into the bowl, and Crowley could hear the hiss of the metal as it hit the water that rested inside it.
“Wait a minute…” Crowley could feel the panic starting to rise in him, as Hastur took the rod out of the bowl. In the flickering firelight, Crowley hadn’t seen it before. The rod wasn’t pointed, like a regular fire poker. No, he could see it now, glowing in the dark room, the swirling symbol at the base, and the double cross. It was a branding iron.
“Oh yes, demon Crowley. You aren’t the only clever one here. A little bit of horseshoe iron, a little bit of Holy Water, together I think they’ll make a nice little memo for you to hold onto.”
Hastur took slow, careful steps towards his captive, the alchemical symbol for sulfur, the Cross of Satan, glowing at the end of the rod, hotter than the flames of any fireplace. He looked at Crowley, whose eyes were blown wide, not a trace of white around the golden glow of snake’s pupils.
“Come on Hastur, maybe we can talk this out…” He could hear the pleading in his own voice, and if he wasn’t staring into the black void of his fellow demon’s eyes, he might have been embarrassed.
“Oh no, Crowley, you’ve done enough talking today.” Hastur closed the distance between them, pressing the brand into Crowley’s skin. As Holy Water and and Iron bored into his flesh, smoke curled up and skin bubbled, the mark going into his body and through to his charred soul. Crowley’s screams filled far more space than the cackling of the other demons did. The whole country shook as the demon shouted in immeasurable pain. He briefly wondered if this was worse than Falling. It certainly came close.
Hastur did not make it quick. He kept the branding iron pressed to Crowley’s skin for what felt like millenia, the glow only glowing brighter as it pushed into the demon. Soon, Crowley could think of nothing but the pain. Any other pain he could have bore. Could have gotten used to eventually. But this was impossible. It never let up, only worsened, until Crowley’s world was filled with nothing but screaming, and went black.
____
The pain did not subside when Crowley came to. He didn’t know how long it had been, but he knew it had been awhile. He was still tied to the chair, but his muscles had begun to ache, and the hearth was filled only with ashes now. He looked around, and in the light of an early morning, he could see that the table had been cleared of any evidence from his torture. He opened his mouth to call out, to see if anyone was still around, and found his mouth dry, his body having forgotten that it didn’t need water.
Crowley closed his eyes, not wanting to look down at his shoulder. He snapped his fingers, embarrassed by the amount of strength it took just to do that, and his bonds fell away. He stretched out his body, reminding this human shape how to move properly. When he stood up, his knees buckled and collapsed, and he hit the wooden floor with a loud thump . He stayed there, on hands and knees for a moment, drawing shaky breaths that he knew he didn’t need, holding back tears that shouldn’t fall. He tried to command them back in, but the pain, the terror, and the shame all washed over him, overpowering and carrying him under.
Hot and sulphuric, they dropped to the floor, leaving small trails of steam as they burned through the wood. Crowley let go, then, letting his small tears build until he was wracked with full sobs and shouts, cursing God and Satan and everything under the sun. He knew that he had been a fool, to think that this would go any other way. He had thought he could keep this a secret, that he could finally have a friend in Aziraphale. He thought he had found someone who had cared, and now he was paying the price.
He peeled himself up from the floor, and made his way back to his bedroom. He peeled his coat off of his body, sticky with sweat, and grime, and blood blacker than night. His eyes still closed, he tried to undo the buttons on his shirt without looking. He kept fumbling though, his hands still shaking, so he gave up, and just tore it off, finishing the job that Hastur’s lackeys had started. He got undressed the rest of the way, and opened his eyes again. He knew there was a mirror behind him. He fought a war within himself.
Look? See the damage that they’ve done to you? Or don’t? You could just cover it up and not think about it. But it will be there for eternity. You will have to see it one day.
Crowley turned, slowly as he could, trying to delay the inevitable. He had to see how bad it was.
When he faced himself in the mirror, he could stop the sobs from coming back. The symbol in his skin was buried deep. The alchemical sign looked charred and rough, as though his body was a piece of wood that had been set aflame. Around it, his skin was angry and red, with sores and burns that had to be at least a few days old, but no less angry. A couple scales surrounded it, a show that this had not stopped at his human body. His very essence would carry this symbol until the day he was destroyed. A show of his misdeeds, and his lapse in loyalty.
He couldn’t take it anymore, seeing it there. He had seen these brands before, and he knew that it would fade. Like any human scar it would turn from this charred black to a deep angry red, but it would stay that way for eternity. Not wanting to think about it, Crowley pulled a bottle of cognac out of his dresser, and sat down on his bed. He tipped the bottle up, and downed it all, letting his body accept the intoxication that would drive this from his mind. Eventually he would have to deal with this. Come up with a way to prevent it from happening again. Until then though, he just wanted to stop. Stop feeling this shame at being caught, and reprimanded so cruelly. Stop the guilt that bored into hom, knowing that if his side had seen, then so had Aziraphale’s. He couldn’t bear to think that his angel had been caught too, and that it had been his fault. No, he just wanted it to stop for now.
So, he laid back onto this bed, under quilts and down-filled covers, hiding the brand from his own sight, and allowed the booze to drag him under into sleep. He remained there for days, so long that a very worried principality came in to check on him. Seeing the clothes strewn about and his dear friend asleep, though, Aziraphale said nothing, and left him to continue his slumber.
Weeks passed, and the angel grew worried. He checked in again, but no movement seemed to have occured. It had been awhile since Crowley had slept this long, but he supposed that it wasn’t unprecedented. Once again, he left. But this time, when he returned to his own room at his own inn, a letter embossed in gold waited there for him. A new job. Another miracle to perform, pulling him away from France for the foreseeable future. Knowing he had to go, but still not wanting to wake Crowley, Aziraphale left him a note. He would wake up in a few days and see it, surely. And then no doubt follow him to wherever he had been called to, this time it was Wales, to make mischief and wreak havoc.
He never did meet Aziraphale in Wales. Or in Germany. Or even in Thailand after that. But the angel was far too busy at first to really notice. Until, that is, he returned to England, and his demon was nowhere to be found. Not a word of his firey-haired enemy, and if he was honest, London seemed just a bit too peaceful. He fretted for days, that turned into months, which further turned into years, and when it became decades, the angel’s fretting bordered on panic.
It was almost a full century before Crowley would see the note, and send a hasty reply to his angel. It was another month before he would work up the courage to return to London to meet with Aziraphale, and explain his very long nap, with many facts omitted. It would be one more week before, in the middle of St. James’ Park, Crowley would ask for his “ insurance plan” from Aziraphale. It would yet another century before he received it.
London, The Day After Armageddon
Aziraphale had known that Heaven would come after him, just as Crowley knew that Hell would come for him. And they had both known that the only clue to their survival laid in the charred and faded message left to them by Agnes Nutter. It had been Crowley, of course, who realized the secret. His oh so clever demon had figured out the puzzle. Heaven, they reasoned, would not want them simply punished. This was far more severe than that. No, they would want both of them destroyed. So, with a harrowing expression that Aziraphale could only describe as a deep, intense fear, Crowley had told the angel what to do.
“Switch bodies with me.” the demon had said, two bottles of wine in. “It’s like she said. ‘Playing with fire’ . Angel, they’re going to burn you in Hellfire. I’ll probably have a VIP spa treatment, complete with Holy Water destruction.”
Aziraphale could see him try to laugh it off, but there was a look there, when Crowley mentioned his own fate, that made Aziraphale’s heart burst with pain, though he couldn’t place why.
“Anyways, if we switch bodies, then maybe we can get around it.”
“Oh, my dear boy! Yes, how clever you are. But are you sure it will work?” Aziraphale asked.
“Not at all, Angel, but I think it’s our only shot.”
“You know, I do think that you might be right. Let’s do it, then.”
“Sober up first, Angel.” Crowley laughed at his friends eagerness. His trust. The words kept running through his mind. Our side. They really were in it together now, until the very end.
_____
The switch had gone off without a hitch, an Aziraphale, now in Crowley’s body, made his way towards the demon’s Mayfair flat. He went upstairs, to make sure that everything in the flat was in order, just as Adam had said it would be. When he approached the door, though, an overwhelming scent of sulphur and ash his nose, and he covered his face to try and block it out. He saw the puddle in the floor, the remains of Ligur mixed with the melted red plastic that had been the bucket. Under the stench he recognized it. The smell of Holy Water.
Aziraphale dropped to his knees, memories of that day in St. James’ coming back to him. How roughly he had refused Crowley, and how angry it had made them both. How the fight had left them separated for months. But really, could Crowley have blamed him? It had been nearly a century, with no word from him at all. Aziraphale had feared the worst, and when he finally came back to Lonon, the angel had been ecstatic. He knew how his demon could be, especially when great disasters or wars fell upon the humans. And then there he had been, asking for ‘insurance’ from him.
Aziraphale hadn’t been able to see it another way. It had never crossed his mind that the ‘insurance’ wasn’t for Crowley to use on himself, but on his fellow demons. He had been so worried for Crowley for so long. So much so, that when he finally caved and gave him the little thermos, he had miracled onto it his own tartan pattern, in the hopes that Crowley would think of him if he ever went to use it. That he would remember the angel that cared about him so much.
Aziraphale didn’t know that he’d been right, of course. That when Crowley set up his trap, he thought of little else besides his angel. How he would never let anyone hurt either of them again, and how he hoped that he would get to watch Hastur scream the way he had in France. He hadn’t quite gotten his wish of course, but watching the demon scream as his companion was obliterated felt almost as good.
The angel stood up from the mess in Crowley’s flat, and quickly miracled it away, not bothering with the frivolity of it. Soon, there would be no concern over when he commanded miracles. Either because this plan would work, or because he would soon be very much dead.
Aziraphale made his way out of the flat, and down to the street. Just outside, he could see the Bentely, parked in its usual spot, with not a single scratch. He beamed knowing that it would be a comfort to know it had survived. Then, hailing a taxi, he headed over to their usual meeting spot at the park, where they would set their trap. HE only hoped they had thought of everything…
_____
The plan worked like clockwork, like the most well rehearsed play in history. Everyone hit their marks and said their lines perfectly. Shakespeare would have rolled in his grave with jealousy. Crowley had never been prouder of himself, as he sat draped across Aziraphale’s couch, enjoying a well deserved glass of wine. Sure, he had nearly broke and punched Gabriel when he heard what they had said about his angel, but he’d kept it together. And so had his angel, it seemed, given that both of them sat here, laughing and joyous, and for the first time in centuries, truly hopeful.
That is, until Aziraphale went suddenly stone faced, his laughter dying as Crowley briefly mentioned the deadly bath. At the mention of it, he switched seats, sharing the small couch with Crowley, and setting his wine glass on the table.
“About that…” he began. “My dear boy, I have...a couple of questions. If you don’t mind please sit up so I could ask them.” Crowley complied, his back against the armrest, facing Aziraphale.
“What is it, angel?” Somewhere, deep down, a dread filled the demon. A piece of him knew where this was going, no matter how much he didn’t want to think about it.
“Well, you see, when I took that bath for you, I had to remove a great deal of clothing from my-er- your body.”
“Like what you see there, angel?” Crowley wiggled an eyebrow, trying to change the subject.
“Well, actually...not entirely.”
“Ouch.”
“Oh, you fiend, not like that. It’s just...Crowley on your shoulder. That mark...how on earth did you-?”
“I made a mistake, angel, that’s all. Small lapse in judgement ‘s all.”
“You didn’t have it in Rome. I know that.” Azirapahle continued, not letting up his interrogation. “And I also know that you did not have it when you rescued my from the Bastille. You took your jacket off at the restaurant, and I distinctly remember you unbuttoning your shirt a bit. I would have seen it. I have not seen you without a shirt since then, until now. Crowley, I have to ask...did they-?”
“Yes. Angel, they found me. They knew. Like I said, my lot doesn’t send rude notes. No, they tie you up in your own flat and brand you with Holy Water.” Crowley said it with no expression. There was nothing in his voice, but everything in his eyes. They were brimming with tears, and unfocused, looking far off, beyond the bookshop and back into France.
“Oh Crowley, my dear, why would they do such a cruel thing?”
“They’re demons, Angel. Cruelty is in the job description. And anyways, I had to be reminded of my loyalties. At least, that’s what Hastur said. So they gave me a mark I could never lose.” He went quiet, and for a moment, not a word was spoken, until Aziraphale leaned forward and touched the top button of Crowley’s shirt.
“May I see it? Please?” He asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Crowley knitted his eyebrows together, thinking hard for a moment. But his angel had already seen it, so what was once more. He nodded.
Aziraphale slowly undid the buttons, and gently slid the shirt off of Crowley’s shoulders, as though the centuries old wound was still fresh. He carefully folded the shirt, and placed it on the coffee table. Then, with gentle hands he traced the brand. Just as Crowley had thought, it had faded from its charred, fresh look to a deep, dark red, that stood out against his pale chest. The skin was raised still, and the lines bubbled a bit in places. A couple of scales still stood out, ones that Crowley never could hide any more. A small tear escaped as the demon watched him.
“I’m sorry, Angel.” he said, his voice small and scared.
“Whatever for, my dearest? You have nothing to be sorry for. I fanything, this is my doing. You got this because you rescued me from a small bit of paperwork. I would have rather been discorporated, had I known this would be the price.”
“But then I couldn’t look at this face of yours.” Crowley chuckled a bit. “And anyways, how can we possibly be on our own side now, with this in the way? I can’t get away from it, Aziraphale, it’s burned deeper than my flesh. What’s left of my soul, I carry it there too.”
“Crowley, please. This...this does not make our bond any less powerful. I am forever grateful to you. I know how much you hate it, but you truly are the kindest demon I have ever had the privilege of meeting. You endured this suffering for my sake. I understand now, why you needed that thermos I gave you. I saw your flat, and what happened. They were cruel to you, just as Heaven was cruel to me, but neither of us need to endure their pain any more. I am still on our side, my dear.”
“Aziraphale...I’m sorry. I never wanted to admit it to you. Demons aren’t supposed to love, you know. They told us that we aren’t even capable of it. But I wouldn’t do this for someone I didn’t love. Angel...I love you.”
“Oh my dearest demon, I love you too.” He leaned down, and pressed soft lips to the mark. “Nothing could ever change that, certainly not this brand. It may last forever, but so will this.” He straightened back up, and kissed Crowley, who leaned in, the sting of the brand fading into nothing, as he let himself be consumed by something far better.
Every ounce of pain and worry he had suffered, every question he had ever asked, had led him here, to this moment. For once, Crowley did not curse Heaven, or Hell, or anyone. In fact, he could do nothing but thank his lucky stars that he has here now. Through it all, this was the only constant. The angel that he loved, by his side. And now he really knew that nothing could break that. Just as Hell had tried to burn through him, to his very soul, so did Aziraphale’s love. And that was a burn that Crowley would happily bear.