Work Text:
“Branding”
(per Whitleyfoster art)
London, England
1843 AD
“Crowley? Is that you?”
Shit…
Crowley winced at the sound of his name—especially the sound of his name said with that particular voice. He hadn’t seen the Angel since Bastille. It had been nearly 50 years since their last encounter...and for good reason.
Still, the Angel was here now, smiling as warmly as ever. Crowley hadn’t realized it, but he’d been aching for that smile. Now he was aching because of it. But what could he do? He couldn’t just ignore Aziraphale and leave him there alone in the pub. Well, he of course he could. Really he should. He ought to tell Mister Goodie Goodie to piss off...He was a demon after all, a damn good one, too.
“May I join you?”
Crowley found himself nodding silently.
Okay maybe not a damn good demon.
“Sorry to interrupt your nightcap—“
“‘S alright. Not interrupting.” Crowley wasn’t sure how much longer he could stand being so close to the Angel. He knew if he wasn’t careful, the sheer holiness of the being now sitting on a stool next to him would start to affect him. But he didn’t want to leave. He’s missed his… acquaintance. Friend?
Okay so he was a lousy demon. Quite lousy, but what do you want from him? He’d never in the thousands of years of his existence been able to deny that particular angel anything. So he stayed and listened to the Principality titter on endlessly about that bookshop that he’d finally gotten around to setting up. Crowley couldn’t help the smile that tugged at the corners of his lips. He could listen to Aziraphale talk for ages and ages.
He was a funny Angel, that one. Particularly unique. Clever. Terribly witty. Adorable. Selfless. Lovely….
Then the pain hit Crowley harder than he’d been anticipating. He gasped and cursed loudly. Aziraphale started….as did half the patrons of the tavern.
“I gotta go.” Crowley rasped out breathlessly. And without a side glance or another word— or even another one of Crowley’s characteristically unintelligible grunts—he scrambled out of the pub, stumbling as he went.
Aziraphale was more than a little perplexed. Crowley hadn’t been nearly drunk enough to cause that level of clumsiness. As a former (sort of) serpent, the demon usually had a certain level of grace to his movements. No… something was definitely off. Aziraphale resolved to follow his friend, just to be certain.
*****
Paris, France
Bastille Fortress
An abandoned cell
1793 AD
Crowley couldn’t breathe. He, as a demon, may not need to, but the human corporation he used while on earth certainly does. So, at this precise moment, not being able to breathe was a rather bad thing. He gasped in low, shallow breaths, unable to focus on anything but his severely bruised abdomen, swollen face, throbbing head.. oh and the actual knife in his back. Hastur, Duke of Hell, twisted the blade in time to the sickening tune of Crowley’s cries. It was right between his shoulders—where the muscles of Crowley’s wings would be, should he choose to manifest them. Given his current predicament, however, manifesting his wings didn’t feel like a good idea. In fact, it felt like such a colossally bad idea that Crowley nearly laughed at the thought. Nearly.
He was being punished.
He knew he probably would be, eventually, but that didn’t stop him. He didn’t even hesitate. He couldn’t stand the thought of the Angel dying… so horribly...or at all. Decapitated. Surrounded by furious, filthy Frenchmen cheering and begging for more blood. At this point, they didn’t seem to give a damn whose blood was spilled. Crowley had been watching these humans and at first he had been impressed that humans could be so....demonic. Then they went for the kid... That poor little boy. Just before the ’revolution’ started, the entire royal family were brutally, publicly executed. One by one. All that was left was the boy: Louis-Charles. At only 9 years old, this little prince was unceremoniously forced into the role of King. His parents and siblings had been imprisoned and slaughtered by the riotous public. Young Louis himself was kidnapped and locked away. He hadn’t been seen or heard from in years, then suddenly, at the beginning of this year, 1793, he was crowned King of France. It was clear the boy was unwell and most certainly traumatised. In Crowley’s opinion, the humans had gone way too far. And he would be damned (...again) if he let those barbarians take Aziraphale.
So when heard that the angel had gotten himself stuck in the cue to the head-cutty-off thing, he simply couldn’t help himself. He did what he usually was prone to do; he swooped in to save the Angel from whatever trouble he’d gotten himself into. He’d done it before. Hell didn’t seem to catch on. Crowley was careful. Crafty. He got away with it. Usually. He must have just slipped up this time around. He could handle it...as long as Aziraphale was safe.
Crowley’s attention was brought violently back to his tormentors as a burst of something bright and hot erupted somewhere to his left. He yelped and tried to jump back, forgetting he was tied firmly to a battered old wooden chair. The surface of the chair was worn down and the wooden fibers were fraying, stabbing Crowley’s back and bottom with splinters with every movement. However uncomfortable the chair was, it was the very least of his concerns. He looked up blearily and was surprised to see Hastur practically huddling with Ligur and Dagon in the corner of the cell.
Hadn’t he just been….?
Crowley chanced a look behind him and snarled as he saw why he hadn’t noticed Hastur leaving his side: the bastard had left the knife, hilt deep, buried in Crowley’s back. He turned back to the hellish trio, intending to scream at them for bad form (not that demons were particularly well known for having good form), but the viscous growl stuck in his throat as he saw what they were doing. In that corner of this filthy cell, there was a grate and within the grate was a ferocious blaze. He’d taken a hell of a beating (if you’ll pardon the pun) already and Crowley had been hopeful that the knife had been the end of it.
Hastur liked to end with a flourish with everything he did. Surely the ‘you stab hell in the back, we stab you in the back...literally’ was the big torturous finale….right?
Evidently no. The three demons huddled in the corner, sneaking glances back at Crowley, tied helplessly to a chair, bleeding all over….and they looked far too happy. After a moment, Crowley was sure he heard Hastur grumble something like “make sure it’s hot. Really hot. I want to hear him sizzle.” That certainly didn’t bode well.
Hastur turned back to Crowley and approached him slowly, his horrible, blistered mouth pulled up into a taunting smile.
“Smiling… ‘s not a great look...on you… very unsettling…” Crowley struggled to get the words out, every breath an agonising reminder of the knife.
Suddenly he felt jagged fingernails dig into his scalp as the Duke of Hell took a fistful of Crowley’s hair and yanked his head back so Crowley was forced to look into the bottomless pits of Hastur’s eyes. The serpent whimpered, the effort to keep himself from yelling out in pain was wearing him down.
“Do you know why we’re here.” Hastur said.
It definitely wasn’t a question. Not really. But it looked like Hastur still expected an answer. When Crowley didn’t give one, Hastur pulled his hair tighter. Crowley gave another involuntary yelp and Hastur’s grin grew broader.
“Because…. because I-I…” Crowley gasped, for once in his life he actually wanted to give Hastur what he wanted, but he didn’t actually know why they were there. He could guess….but he could end up exposing his connection with the Angel...if they didn’t already know. If they were here to punish him for something else, he could accidentally get himself and Aziraphale in a world of trouble by letting their arrangement slip out in front of Hell’s most...enthusiastic torturers.
So Crowley, gasped and stuttered, but made no answer. Hastur released Crowley’s hair from his skeletal grip. Instead, he grabbed the hilt of the knife still protruding from the lesser demon’s back. Crowley had almost forgotten it was there, so numb was the pain after so long. He remembered now. Hastur began twisting the knife again horribly...slowly. Crowley screamed, arching his back, then promptly lurched forward and vomited as the nauseating pain twisted his stomach like wringing out a wet towel.
He panted, grateful when he noticed Hastur was no longer holding the knife. He could feel himself blacking out and he wanted it. The edges of his vision flickered and the room swayed in front of him. Oh he wanted to sleep so badly.
‘When this is over,’ he thought to himself, ‘I’m going to sleep for a full year...maybe more.’
‘More’ was definitely looking like a possibility...as Hastur turned around holding an iron rod, warped into a bizarre yet familiar shape at one end. Said shape was glowing like the damn sun, and Christ it was hot.
“What’re you…?” Crowley started, eyeing the rod.
“You see, Crawly, we know that rescuing the ….angel” Dagon gagged at the word, “was probably just a result of your idiocy. Yes?”
Crowley spluttered and finally said “y-yeah...yes! I mean—yes of course. Idiocy. Big stupid idiot, that’s me.”
“Right. Well stupidity is no excuse for treachery.”
“That’s what the knife is for.” Ligur growled right in Crowley’s ear, rancid breath making Crowley want to vomit again. Then, Ligur removed the knife roughly and Crowley nearly fainted from the fresh way of pain that rippled through his whole body.
“And it’s just bad business to allow mistakes, idiotic or otherwise, to be repeated.” Dagon continued.
“So to make sure this never happens again….” Hastur grinned wickedly, eyeing the satanic symbol fondly as it glowed and seemed to crackle with anticipation. It was like the hot metal itself was hungry for the flesh it had been promised.
Hastur continued, looking positively gleeful as he edged closer to Crowley’s exposed chest, “we’re going to leave you with a little reminder of what you are, Crawly. Of who you are. Who you will always belong to. Hold him down.” The last bit was to Ligur and Dagon. They listened and grabbed hold of Crowley’s arms, making even squirming impossible.
Before Crowley could protest, the iron met his flesh and viscously boiled the skin away instantly. The involuntary sound that burst forth from Crowley’s lips was not human...it was not demonic nor angelic. It was visceral and deeply rooted in the demon’s very essence.
There are no words, as of yet, that humans have invented to accurately describe the level of agony the serpent Crowley was experiencing at this moment. But if one were to try to describe it in human terms, one might say it felt something like a shovel that was made of fire was digging into his chest and scooping out his entire being, replacing the gaping cavity with boiling acid and fire ants.
Only when the unforgiving iron stopped glowing with heat did Hastur remove the brand. As he did, stubborn bits of skin stuck to the iron and were ripped away. Horrified, disgusted, Crowley wretches again. The smell of burnt flesh alone churned his stomach, but the knowledge that it was his own gooey, ruined flesh made it so so much worse.
Crowley was delirious, he couldn’t see straight and the world around him felt like it was moving in slow motion. He tried to speak, but no words came. Hastur and his companions chuckled, seeming to know what Crowley wanted to ask without him having to ask it.
“Yes Crawly, that was no earthly fire.” Ligur chortled, grabbing Crowley’s slacked jaw, mocking his stupefied expression.
“H….hh.. hell….?”
“Yes, serpent, hell fire.” Well that made sense.
“Now let’s see if this worked.” Hastur grumbled, returning to the far corner of the room to fetch something else, “Let’s have a little test...”
*****
Crowley stumbled into the wall outside the tavern. A few passers-by chuckled at his expense, most likely assuming he was some pathetic drunk trying to make his way home. What they didn’t know was that an old scar on Crowley’s chest was blistering and burning anew. He had hoped he would have been able to make it to his London flat, but that clearly wasn’t going to happen. His vision was already fading and his stomach was twisting in protest to the sudden, excruciating pain. So instead he ducked into the nearest alley way and all but ripped his shirt open to access the wound. Sure enough, the deformed, cross-like shape was sizzling like the wound was fresh.
His legs shook and buckled beneath him. He managed not to crash into the ground by grabbing the wall and leaning all his weight onto the exposed brick. He slid the rest of the way down to the ground and groaned. Crowley pressed his lips together and tried to breathe.
He was just starting to think it’s good thing I got away from the Angel when I did...could have gotten a lot worse—. But suddenly, the sizzling grew more intense; his skin was practically bubbling.
It was getting worse.
“What….the….fuck…” he huffed out, his whole body shaking and going rigid with the pain.
Then he knew why it was worse…
“Crowley?”
“Ffffffuuuuuck…” he was going to be sick. He could feel it. But instead he fell sideways and tried desperately to cover his exposed chest.
“Crowley! What on earth are you doing down there.” The Angel laughed softly, then stopped when he saw his friend curled in on himself on the ground.
“Oh my dear! What has happened to you?!” He reached out to touch the demon, but Crowley flinched away.
“‘S f-fine, Zira… ‘Ssssss all fine. Y-you can go now.”
“Crowley please tell me what’s going on! Let me help you!” Aziraphale reached out again and it seemed the demon was too weak to flinch away, so when the angelic hand gripped Crowley’s shoulder in what should have been a comforting way, Crowley couldn’t stifle the sob that escaped from between his clenched teeth.
“Fuck off Angel!” Crowley blurted out in a desperate attempt to get Aziraphale away from him.
Aziraphale blushed indignantly and glared.
“I will do no such thing.” He said darkly. “You’re poorly for some reason and I can’t just leave you here to suffer!”
“Sssssure you can! J-just… just go on then. I’ll be fine. G-great in fact. Now I’m b….beg...begging you…” The demon’s amber eyes glazed over and rolled up before sliding shut as he lost consciousness.
“Oh my dear…” the Angel breathed… suddenly far more concerned than he had been when he first saw Crowley laying there in the alley. He reached over to see what Crowley was hiding. Upon seeing the fresh wound, Aziraphale balked and almost started crying.
“Oh my dearest... you poor thing. What has happened to you?”
*****
Hastur turned back to Crowley, he was pulling up gloves that went up to all the way to his shoulders. Quickly, Dagon and Ligur left Crowley’s side and seemed to take cover behind Hastur.
“Whaddya mean….t-test?” Crowley managed.
“Wounds heal, Crowley.” Hastur explained, dully, “Now what kind of reminder would it be if that mark left something as harmless as a scar? No no no.” His smile was revolting... “We want to make sure you never feel tempted to seek the company of angels again…”
Suddenly Hastur pulled out an ancient looking crucifix. Crowley winced, but Hastur was all the way on the opposite side of the room, so he didn’t feel any effects if he didn’t look at the blessed thing. Then, with that disgusting smile, Hastur stepped forward. And again. And again. It took a few steps, but with horror Crowley realised what they’d done to him with the hell fire. The closer Hastur got with the cross the hotter the mark on his chest became. Suddenly it was sizzling again, as if the hot iron was pressed back into his skin. Confused, terrified, Crowley screamed. Finally he understood.
If Crowley came close to anything holy, the mark would serve as a reminder of the consequences he would face. The wound would burn again, as though the glowing steel impregnated with Hellfire was burning him all over again.
As horrible as the pain was, the worst of it was when he realized that this meant he could never see Aziraphale again. At that, Crowley couldn’t help but feel he’d really prefer the head-cutty-off...thing.
*****
Crowley woke slowly and painfully. He sucked in a harsh breath as he remembered the pain.
“Hush, dear. Easy now, just lay back.” At the sound of Aziraphale’s familiar voice, Crowley’s eyes blew wide open and he jumped up, trying to get back and away from the angel. He only managed backing up and hitting his head on the wall behind him. He cursed and reached up to rub the back of his bruised head. He looked around and realized that the Angel had brought him home. He was in his bed. It was dark, but he could see Aziraphale sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at Crowley with nothing but concern.
“Angel, I said I was fine!” Crowley spat. He didn’t want to do it, but he knew the only way to get Aziraphale to leave was if he not only pushed him away, but shoved him away. Unfortunately Aziraphale saw right through him.
“Yes of course you are.” Aziraphale answered sharply, but not unkindly.
“Aziraphale…. Angel...you’ve got to go.” he was pleading now ”Please just get out of here.”
“Why? Because that horrid burn will only worsen while I’m near you.” He said it with such nonchalance that Crowley stared.
“Yeah that’d be why….” Crowley pulled his shirt tighter to hide the seared flesh, though why he tried to hide it was unclear, seeing as Aziraphale already knew about and somehow knew what it would do to Crowley.
“H-how did you g-guessss?”
“Oh Crowley do be sensible! I didn’t guess. I’ve….I've read about these things.” From the look on the Angel’s face, it had not been reading for pleasure.
Then something occurred to Crowley; though the burn was still excruciating, it didn’t feel...fresh...like the iron was still pressed against his skin. Like his skin was melting away.
“Wait. What’d you do, Angel?”
Never one to give a straight answer (frankly, never one to give a straight anything) Aziraphale looked away and busied himself with a book—probably one of those he’d been referring to—and fussing over Crowley’s shirt, which he hadn’t realized was torn quite badly.
“I’m afraid I can’t heal you… but I know a thing or two about curses.”
“Wot…?” Crowley said distractedly, fighting against the urge to fall asleep again. He needed to hear Aziraphale’s explanation.
The Angel sighed and looked up to meet Crowley’s eyes. It was then the demon realized he wasn’t wearing his glasses; he suddenly felt much more exposed and looked away as he waited for Aziraphale’s answer.
“Obviously the wound was made with Hellfire, but it was cursed with perfectly ordinary demonic…. well I know you don’t care for the term magic….so I guess I’ll say demonic miracles.”
Crowley chuckled at this then winced.
“And, though I’m loath to admit it...due to our arrangement, I have some experience with demonic energy and demonic miracles.”
Crowley watched his face and stared at him, bemused.
“You don’t mean to tell me…”
“Yes. I rather doubt your...erm… colleagues were expecting you to find an Angel who knows how to break a rekindling curse.” There was no doubt about it now; the Angel was smiling, looking awfully pleased with himself. He tried to stop the mischievous, not very angelic smirk and instead blushed deeply.
Now he was the one who couldn't meet Crowley’s eyes. Crowley could not help but laugh. He’d spent all these years avoiding the Angel, keeping his distance...when this nightmare could have been sorted out as easily as going out for brunch! Crowley laughed until he gasped.
“Fucken hell…” he panted, wincing, “Blimey this still hurts.”
“Well yes, I suppose it must do. I would heal it if I could but since it was made with—.”
“Hellfire. Yeah. I got it. I’m not blamin’ you...jus’.... really hurts is all.”
”I know, my dear.” Aziraphale said, his voice practically oozing with compassion. “The good news is now it can heal properly and stay healed. It will just take time. There will be nothing to do about the scar. I’m dreadfully sorry for that.”
“‘Ssokay actually.” The demon grinned a little menacingly, “means I won’t forget what they did. They had no mercy for me, so I won’t have any mercy for them. I’m gonna be ready for them next time.”
It turns out it’s quite difficult to sound intimidating when you can’t help but whimper with pain between breaths. If Crowley looked pathetic (which at this moment it should be noted that he most definitely did) Aziraphale made no comment or any indication that suggested he didn’t know just how strong and fearsome his friend could be.
Instead, he asked gently, “Is there anything I can do to help? I want you to be ready too. It would be foolish to even hope that they won’t do this again or something worse. I want to help you.”
Crowley looked at him seriously, “I dunno yet, Angel. But when I think of something, I’ll let you know. Gotta brainstorm before I hash out a master plan.” He said it with the intention of bringing a little bit of mirth back to Aziraphale worry-etched face. It did not have much effect, however, because Crowley’s pain was quite evident: from his shaking hands to the cold sheen of sweat on his brow.
Aziraphale places a hand fondly on Crowley’s head. Without thinking about it, Crowley leaned into the touch. The demon suddenly felt blissfully drowsy.
“Rest dear boy. Rest so you can work on that plan of yours.” Aziraphale rose from the bed and made his way to the door. Crowley, half asleep, reached for the Angel’s arm and caught his sleeve.
“Dear?”
”Le’s not wait another ‘fffify years thisss time, mmkay?”
Aziraphale smiled sadly and took Crowley’s hand in his own affectionately.
“How about I come back tomorrow to check on you? Mm?”
“Sssounds nice, Angel. I mean...good. ‘tsounds good.” Crowley simply couldn’t keep his eyes open a moment longer.
Aziraphale watched as his friend finally, mercifully fell asleep. He closed the door quietly and found himself in Crowley’s fashionable living room—which certainly must be the right term for it, even though it didn’t look remotely lived in.
He decided not to leave. He couldn’t leave. Crowley was in no state to be left alone.
For the sake of the demon’s pride, Aziraphale wouldn’t say a word, but he knew that Crowley was scared, and rightfully so.
Frankly Aziraphale was scared too. Suddenly, he wasn’t just frightened; he was angry...really properly angry. Fierce protective urges flooded his mind. He wanted to drown the lot of them—Hastur and the other two, whoever they were—in holy water. He wanted to take a hot poker and brand them as the cowards they were.
With holy water, there was still a risk to Crowley... and Aziraphale didn’t want to think of that. The pokers though, the branding would be an eye for an eye… so to speak.
The Angel stopped himself, then looked up sharply. “Yes I know. I know. You don’t care for that sort of behaviour anymore. Revenge is not becoming of an agent of the Lord.” He wasn’t sure if She was listening or even aware of his presence. Still, he knew he didn’t have the guts to seek revenge. It wasn’t in his nature. He deflated a little and settled on Crowley’s couch, which was surprisingly comfortable given how stiff and ridged it appeared. If nothing else, he would protect the demon. His demon. His friend.
He would protect Crowley in any way he could...he would even protect Crowley from himself and his self-destructive tendencies, if it came to that. After all, Crowley had saved his life countless times over the millennia...the least he could do was repay the favour.