Work Text:
“MANHATTAN”
September 11, 2001: USA
The Village, NYC
Aziraphale wasn't even supposed to be in New York City that day. It's just that it had been a while since he had seen his dear friend and he had caught word that Crowley was in Manhattan. He had no missions from heaven or miracles to see to so he made the trip.
It was a positively glorious day in the village and the Angel was enjoying a book and a cup of tea just outside a quaint little coffee shop overlooking the Hudson. The morning sun glittered on the water just so, the bay looked beautiful and—despite knowing the water itself was notoriously polluted, Aziraphale was actually stunned. He was finally starting to understand why humans seemed to love this metropolitan "concrete jungle."
He'd only just arrived the evening before. Crowley was evidently very busy. At least, he'd said as much when Aziraphale reached him on the phone.
The demon had seemed quite glad to hear from the angel and agreed to meet after he finished taking care of some business for hell. Apparently it was a BIG one.
Aziraphale knew better than to ask for specifics, so he just waited and enjoyed the view.
He was about to pay his bill when his blood suddenly ran icy cold. Something was wrong—horribly wrong.
He looked around and saw nothing out of the ordinary. The water was still shimmering, humans were still happily walking around, enjoying their Tuesday morning, the sky was still a clear, brilliant blue.
He saw nothing, but he could feel it. He felt himself shiver despite the warm sun on his back. Aziraphale figured he was just being paranoid but he couldn't shake the feeling. Surely there was a reason for this sensory overload. Angels didn't just feel the urge and call to duty for nothing. He continued looking up, sensing something dreadful was coming. And then he saw it.
God, no. Please no.
He prayed desperately. Surely She would intervene. Surely She would stop this.
And then the plane hit.
Aziraphale's legs seemed to melt beneath him as he stared, unable to look away from the fireball that erupted from the North Tower of the World Trade Center. It took a moment...then the screaming started. It happened like needles poking small holes into the bubble of white noise of the city. Just a few at first, then swarms of cries as the humans realized what just happened.
Aziraphale hadn't noticed that he had sunk to his knees in the middle of the street. A cab honked at him and snapped him out of his daze. It startled him to his feet and he swiftly moved to the sidewalk, still unable to look away from the now billowing cloud of black smoke spewing from the tower.
"My God." He breathed. He had to do something. Suddenly he jumped into action. He only knew of one place in Manhattan where he could reach the head office. Surely Gabriel or one of the other Archangels could send reinforcements—enough to help the people who were clearly now trapped in the burning skyscraper. The only problem now was figuring out how to get there; he didn't know the city very well.
He whirled around and hailed a cab.
"Museum of Natural History, please! And quickly!" He shakily clambered into the back seat and the driver took off. The closer they got to the museum, the more congested the traffic became. Aziraphale couldn't bare just sitting there, waiting.
"How much longer?!" He implored.
"A few blocks still."
He knew the contact point was somewhere in the religious artifacts. But that was all he knew. He wasn't sure what he was looking for specifically. The urgency bubbling up in his very soul told him he didn't have a moment to waste. As he ran through the exhibits, looking for celestial imagery or marks of a holy presence, he sent up another prayer, even more desperate than the first.
He wasn't sure why he didn't expect an answer; as an Angel, it was in his job description to have unwavering faith. Still when he heard Her voice in his mind, he nearly toppled over.
Here... She said gently. And suddenly he knew exactly where to go.
"Gabriel please. Something is horribly wrong. I don't think this is an accident."
"Aziraphale...this is tragic, yes, but tragic accidents happen all the time with humans. They're too simple to see these things coming."
"Gabriel please!" Aziraphale pleased, wishing he was physically there in the Archangel's pretentious, heavenly office. He knew it was much harder to be convincing as an apparition. Gabriel was clearly finding it extremely easy to ignore Aziraphale.
"Just a few angels! A few principalities! Surely you can spare—!"
"Aziraphale, enough! I've given you my answer. If you insist on intervening, you may do so! What do I care?! But this conversation is over."
Gabriel disconnected the transmission and Aziraphale suddenly found himself back in the museum, standing at the base of an ancient baptismal font. He was so frustrated with how poorly that had gone, he nearly cursed. Then he had an idea: Crowley. Crowley would surely agree to help! He may not be a small set of trained angelic principalities but Aziraphale trusted his demonic friend more than anyone. He knew if he asked, and stressed how important this was, Crowley would be there by his side.
He stepped back into the sun and searched frantically for a pay phone. He finally spotted one just outside the subway entrance. He fumbled in his pockets for some change. While he waited for Crowley to answer, he checked his time piece, almost 15 minutes since the plane hit and the sky looked like spilled ink.
There was no answer from his demon, but Aziraphale was determined and he redialed.
Then he felt it again: his blood ran cold. It felt frozen in his veins. He noticed his own reflection in the windshield of a car parked on the street next to him. He watched as the phone fell from his grip. He watched as his mouth dropped and his eyes blew wide. He watched as all the color drained from his face... He watched as a second plane crashed into the South Tower.
The screams around him were ten-fold compared to when the first plane hit. It was as if the entire city came to the same conclusion simultaneously: this was no accident...we're under attack.
Aziraphale turned around to stare and let out a sob of despair.
If only he could reach Crowley so they could...
Crowley. Oh God.
Aziraphale's heart shattered in his chest. Was this Crowley's work? Was this his big mission for Hell? Nothing else made sense. He didn't want to believe it. He racked his brain for different possibilities, but all he could think was how betrayed he felt. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream with rage. Before he could do either, he was brought back to the present with a jolt. Someone had run past him, slamming into his shoulder and almost knocking him down. People were running away, screaming, staring in shock, sobbing. Sirens were coming from every direction. Aziraphale watched as a fire truck blazed past and he knew what he needed to do. He raced against the crowd—toward the towers.
He snapped his fingers and donned a uniform identical to the ones jumping off the trucks and sprinting into the pair of skyscrapers. He joined their ranks seamlessly.
After climbing a few flights of stairs, they heard the sounds of panic grow louder. They started directing the civilians down the stairs so they didn't trample each other. These volunteers were so selfless and good-hearted, it brought fresh tears to Aziraphale's eyes. He placed a blessing on the group of them, praying it would be enough to keep them alive. Then he snuck to an alcove behind one of the flights of stairs. He closed his eyes and concentrated, listening for prayers. He needed to find the people in the building who weren't able to get out by themselves. He didn't know why he felt so certain, but the angel knew that he was needed higher up.
He made sure the group of volunteer firemen had the situation mostly under control before miracling himself to the floors above the crash zone. The smoke was horribly thick up here and Aziraphale gagged and coughed as he made his way down the hall, listening intently for cries for help.
When all was said and done, Aziraphale maybe helped a dozen or so people get down to the stairwell where the rest of the volunteer crew were leading everyone out and to safety.
His earthly body was thoroughly exhausted and battered. But there was still another tower, and thousands of souls hanging in the balance.
The chaos and turmoil were palpable and so potent in the air that it had an even stronger effect on Aziraphale than the smoke demanding space in his lungs. He felt his powers dwindling and was worried he wouldn't have enough energy to perform miracles as they were needed.
He coughed and retched as he prepared to miracle himself to the other tower.
It was unspeakable. Aziraphale felt practically powerless to provide the help that was needed. He wanted to curse Gabriel for refusing to send aid.
People cried in pain, in agony, in fear… there was so much fear. Soon, the incoming prayers were too many for Aziraphale to sort through on his own. It was discombobulating. He was definitely not performing at his best, though he sure as heaven was trying.
He watched in horror as people jumped to their deaths to escape the flames. They tried desperately to help each other...to make it out before the inevitable happened.
The Angel witnessed more devastation that day than he had in several millennia.
At one point, he was assisting a pregnant woman, who was crying and clutching her swollen stomach, clearly only concerned about shielding her unborn child, out of the North Tower when the ground shook. He looked up in time to see the South Tower begin to crumble. Without another thought, Aziraphale released his wings from the ethereal realm and shielded the woman and himself as the first tower collapsed in on itself. It was as though an avalanche had been released onto the island. He heard the sound of hundreds of people screaming, including the woman he held folded in his angelic embrace... until something heavy hit his head and he lost consciousness.
When he came to, he felt two pairs of arms lifting him gingerly to his feet. He was covered in thick, gray soot and debris. So were, he noticed, the two uniformed men who were trying to guide him away from the wreckage.
"The woman..." Aziraphale mumbled, wheezing through smoke and dust, "where is she?"
"She's alright. She over here. It's a miracle she isn't hurt. You did great, man. Come on, we need to get you somewhere safe."
"No." Aziraphale shook the fatigue off and repeated "No. No! There are still people who—they need help! I can help-!"
They were too distracted to hear him. They spoke to the paramedics, saying something about a head injury, but Aziraphale's ears were ringing much too loudly for him to process what they were saying.
"You have to let me go!" He shouted again, but if they heard him this time, they had no chance to answer.
The second tower fell.
Aziraphale's heart burst and he let out a scream of anguish in unison with the rest of the city.
Another avalanche of debris showered the city, sending them into pitch black, suffocating darkness.
For the first time that day, Aziraphale feared for his own life. He couldn't breathe—he forgot that he didn't technically need to, but the sudden inability to do so sent him into a panic. He couldn't see, he could only cough and listen to others cough and cry out. He felt helpless, his energy almost completely depleted from the devastation around him. Almost. He had a little bit of angelic light still flickering inside him. It would have to be enough.
Aziraphale worked to clear the smoke, moving more sluggishly than he'd like. Slowly, the dust dissipated enough for him to see the others struggling to their feet. Though some were unable to even struggle. The Angel recognized one of the volunteers who had moved him out of harm's way after the first tower collapsed. His head was bleeding and he was stuck beneath an unidentifiable piece of rubble. Aziraphale made his way to where the fireman lay and sighed in relief when he stirred.
"It's alright. It's alright…. Let me help you." He said as he knelt down to better inspect the man's injuries.
With a quick glance around to make sure no one saw, he waved a hand and the man's head wound disappeared. He groaned in pain and Aziraphale looked anxiously at the burden pinning him to the ground.
"I know. I know. It's going to take me a moment to set you right. Just keep talking to me. What's your name, dear?"
"Dan….Daniel." He panted.
"Daniel. Wonderful. That's a good strong name. Daniel do you have a family?"
"Yeah...yeah. Two kids, one on the way."
Aziraphale swallowed hard, trying not to think of how many of these poor people had a similar story...and how many of them would not be going home to their families. But this man—Daniel—he would make it home. Aziraphale would see to that. He could do that much.
"Oh? What are their names?" Aziraphale continued, assessing the damage beneath the debris.
Once again, he worked much slower than usual, but eventually he was able to remove the rubble and heal Daniel's broken bones.
He and Daniel then went on to help several more people get their bearings and get the medical attention they needed.
Of course, they also came across many who were less fortunate. For every body they found, Aziraphale knelt down and gave their souls to God with a sacred blessing.
Finally, nearly twenty hours after the first plane hit, there was nothing more the angel could do… not without getting some rest at least. He was completely spent. Everything hurt, worst of all his heart. Aziraphale finally made it back to the hotel room he had checked into the night before. That seemed like a thousand years ago, planning to come and visit his friend. His friend…
The angel would normally have miracled himself clean, but he barely had the energy to manually strip down and prepare the shower for himself.
Once under the flow of warm water, he couldn't hold it in any longer. He choked out a sob and suddenly he was crying in earnest, completely unable to stop.
He had no idea how long he stood there in the shower, but he couldn't bring himself to move. He watched mournfully as the water, tinged with black ash and blood, steadily flowed down the drain. Even when the water ran clear, Aziraphale stayed put.
When he finally shut the water off and dried off, he felt a presence materialize somewhere outside the washroom. He quickly wrapped himself up in a robe and opened the door, wondering if it was Gabriel coming to make excuses...or maybe Crowley coming to offer an explanation for the day's tragedies.
It was neither. Instead the apparition of the Archangel Michael stood before him, looking more mournful than Aziraphale had ever seen them.
"Principality Aziraphale… we heard the extent of the day's events and wanted to check on your status." They said, clearly trying to keep all emotion from their voice.
"I'm fine." Aziraphale glowered.
Michael just looked at him, apparently struggling for words.
"I understand why it would upset you to see any of us."
"It's not your fault, Michael." Aziraphale found himself saying. "It's Gabriel I'm frustrated with…" Then, before he could stop himself, the words spewed from his trembling lips, "Sod it all. I'm not frustrated. I'm furious. I never knew I could be so angry, as an angel. But today has brought me to my limits, Michael! Why could you not send me some help? What has Gabriel got against me that he couldn't bare to provide aid? Thousands of innocent lives were brutally cut short! Families have been torn apart! None of this had to happen! We could have intervened and prevented all of this—! Or at least save as many as we could! I was out there by myself- and-and—!" He was breathless and in real danger of breaking down in tears again. Loathe to do so in front of one of his superiors, Aziraphale bit his lip and willed his eyes to stay dry and his glare to remain firm.
After a few moments, Michael spoke again, "Well you won't have to worry about Gabriel anymore—at least not for a little while."
"What do you mean?"
Michael hesitated, then they heaved a sigh and continued.
"Gabriel is being...reprimanded."
"What?" Aziraphale was sure he hadn't heard properly, "but Archangels can't be reprimanded...unless it's by… by…"
"God Herself, yes. As it turns out, She called to Gabriel to perform his duty as 'protector' and unfortunately, because that calling was through you, Gabriel didn't take it seriously. He neglected his post." Michael sighed again, seeing Aziraphale's bewildered expression.
"You were right, Aziraphale. And We—or Heaven, rather— want to extend a sincere apology."
Aziraphale accidentally let out the scoff that he'd hoped was only in his head.
"Aziraphale. Truly."
Suddenly Michael's hand gripped Aziraphale's shoulder with a surprising warmth.
Before Aziraphale could react, Michael's form shimmered and faded away.
Aziraphale didn't sleep...not usually anyway. But the fatigue was simply too much. It certainly wasn't a restful sleep, though. He replayed the worst moments of the day over and over...only with a few new faces. Every turn he took, every bloom of flame turned into a pair of yellow, snake-like eyes...or crimson-coloured curls.
Crowley?! Crowley thank goodness! You have to help me! We have to get these people out-!
Get out of here, Angel! You'll ruin everything!
He woke with a start like an electric shock. His entire body was shuddering incessantly. He looked down at his trembling hands in the dim light. He was grateful to be awake and away from the dreams ...but only briefly.
"He would never stoop so low. He wouldn't." He told himself, almost as if he was willing it to be true.
"Wouldn't he though?"
The grizzly voice should have startled him more, but perhaps he was already subconsciously aware of the dark presence in the room. Through the half-light of the moon shining through the curtains, he saw a figure sitting, slouching on a chair just by the hotel room door.
Suddenly acutely aware of the demonic scent of sulfur and ash, Aziraphale wrinkled his nose and clutched his hands into fists. It certainly wasn't Crowley.
"I don't think we've ever met, formally…" came a growl as the figure shifted in his seat.
"No I don't believe so."
"Ya know for one chubby little angel, you're quite an adversary for our dear Serpent…. You know Crawley, don't you?"
"Crowley—I mean...yes I know of my earthly counterpart."
"Right. Well. 'Suppose I should introduce m'self. I'm Hastur… Duke of hell."
His name sounded like grinding teeth.
"Oh."
"Oh so you've 'eard of me, 'ave you?"
Aziraphale quickly covered his unexplained familiarity. Of course he knew Hastur: Duke of Hell. Crowley hated him. Evidently, he was about as demonic as a demon could get.
"I've heard of you, yes. But only vaguely...from your rather… colourful reputation."
"Has Crowley mentioned me?"
Aziraphale knew that Crowley was constantly concerned that Hastur suspected their…arrangement. He clearly was trying to catch Aziraphale off-guard, force him to slip up and say something incriminating.
"We're adversaries. We hardly know each other, let alone feel familiar enough to exchange pleasantries."
He couldn't see, but he had the sinking suspicion that Hastur was smiling a revolting smile.
"Well that's jus' too bad, that is. Not sure you'll be seeing any more of him for a while anyway…"
"What makes you say that?" Aziraphale tried desperately to keep his voice level and what he hoped sounded nonchalant.
"Looks like he might be gettin' a promotion. In the middle of receivin' his hefty commendation now...ya know for today."
The Angel was torn to pieces inside. He nearly balked at the idea of not seeing Crowley anymore… but he felt emotionally crushed that he was hearing what sounded like confirmation. This was Crowley's work.
"What do you want?" Aziraphale failed to hide the quaver from his voice this time.
"Jus' wanted to check on the...eh… opposition and see how your lot're faring after our win today."
"Get out."
"No need to get tetchy with me, your holiness." Has turned chuckled (at least Aziraphale assumed it was laughter—it sounded more like gurgling...) "Sometimes your lot win some and sometimes WE win some."
His cackle was disgusting both for the sound and for the reason he laughed.
"I find it hard to believe that even Hell could consider what happened today a 'win'..."
"Just goes to show how little you know us."
"I am fairly certain I told you to GET. OUT."
"Alrigh' alrigh' I'm goin'. Bored of you now anyway." The dark figure rose lazily from his chair and moved closer to the Angel, to the center of the room. "Oh, one las' thing. Any message you wan' me to… pass along to Crowley?"
"Why-why….? What do you mean? Why would I have a message for a demon?"
"No reason. Jus' thought I'd ask."
Aziraphale could have been mistaken, but he felt sure he'd just seen Hastur's eyes glow red and illuminate his putrid yellow teeth in a sickly grin before he sank through the floor.
Aziraphale did not bother to try and sleep anymore after that. He didn't want to admit it, but Hastur had got to him, got right under his angelic skin and injected poisonous thoughts into his very soul. He knew Crowley. Crowley hated violence. Crowley pretended to fail horribly at his job whenever he was asked to do something that would hurt children. He took whatever punishment came his way because he simply would not hurt them.
But how could there be any other explanation? As far as Aziraphale knew, he and Crowley were the only ones from their opposing sides who resided on earth and who were allowed to influence human behaviour. Then again, some of the worst events in history were brought on by humans all on their own…. But Hastur said Crowley was going to be promoted for this… he was receiving a commendation right this very moment.
"Obviously he must be lying." He told himself. "Of course he is. He has to be." he said it aloud, once again willing it to be true. He knew that Crowley was hoping to make up for several instances where he wasn't ...evil enough for Hell's taste. He knew that his friend had been planning a number of different… temptations to get back into Hell's good books—or rather bad books.
Aziraphale was becoming more and more certain that Crowley had let things get out of hand...that this was his doing. But still, he didn't want to condemn his friend without giving him a chance to explain himself. He already tried Crowley's personal phone line, many times, but no luck. There was really only one other way to reach the demon privately.
Aziraphale wasn't particularly comfortable with performing a seance, but Crowley had shown him how—just in case he needed to reach Crowley in an emergency. It was essentially the same process as contacting the heavens, just with more fire and a small sacrifice of blood.
Aziraphale miracled a fire into the grate of the fireplace just opposite the bed. He had plenty of cuts and scrapes from the hellish experience of the day before, but unfortunately it had to be given willingly...and it had to be fresh. Carefully, painfully aware that his hands had not stopped shaking since the previous morning, Aziraphale took a dinner knife from his room service tray and made a small but generous cut across his palm. He tried not to dwell on how barbaric this method was. He turned over his hand and let a steady stream of crimson pour from the center of the satanic star figure he'd constructed at the base of the faux-stone mantel all the way into the fire where it sizzled menacingly. Then, the angel swallowed hard and pulled something small and delicate from his pocket. A black feather—almost like a raven's, only instead of having a bluish-purple tint, the hue was a dark, bloody red. Crowley's. He'd given Aziraphale one feather for the sake of being able to call him and only him for privacy's sake. He stroked the feather fondly before sighing and tossing it into the flames.
If he was nervous that it wouldn't work, his fears were put to rest very quickly as the flames changed from a burnt orange to a sinister black. He grabbed the cloth napkin from the tray and wrapped it around his bleeding hand.
"Cro-Crowley? Are you there? I've never done this before. Please, answer me ..."
He could have sworn he heard something of a struggle—muffled grumbling.
"Crowley? Dear, is that you?"
No response.
"Look I suppose you're busy… celebrating," he said through his gritted teeth, then took a breath to calm down.
"If you can hear me, meet me at the erm… er… fifth rendezvous? Or is it the fourth? Oh bless it—the North American rendezvous. 8 o'clock tonight. Please, Crowley. I need to know why you did this ..."
Four hours. Four hours Aziraphale waited in Central Park. It was crowded here at the edge of the trees. It seemed that the tragic events of the day before left a lot of New Yorkers in search of a source of peace. The angel couldn't blame them; Strawberry Fields was a good place to find it. John Lennon's memorial had been put under the protection of a certain angel and demon duo. They had miracled an invisible barrier around the "Imagine" mosaic clearing, so that anyone who passed through it would be overcome with calmness and a desire to bring peace into the world. Having known John personally, both Aziraphale and Crowley felt an emotional and ethical responsibility to keep his legacy safe.
Aziraphale sat on one of the benches surrounding the memorial, watching people come and go, shedding tears freely. He remembered being in this exact spot when they'd heard the news of John Lennon's murder. Crowley, who prided himself with not crying had bawled unabashedly. Aziraphale couldn't help the small smile that crept across his lips. He'd been proud of his friend that day ...showing his emotions like that… it was almost human.
But what Crowley had done yesterday was far from humane, Aziraphale reminded himself.
He was about to give up and leave, when he felt a dark presence enter the protected barrier of the memorial. He was so relieved, he could have collapsed. But when he turned around, smile spread wide, he saw immediately that it was definitely NOT Crowley.
Three demons, identical with glowing red eyes and skin-tight leather head to toe were skulking to where he stood frozen. He wasn't the only thing that suddenly froze. Aziraphale glanced around and noticed with dismay that all the humans had stopped in their tracks. The demonic trio had stopped time.
"What do you want?" He asked sharply.
"Ooooh" one of them cooed, "don't waste any time do you, Angel?"
He said nothing.
"We're here to deliver a message."
"Go on, then."
"The Demon Crowley sent us." The three of them sneered in unison.
"O-oh?" Aziraphale faltered, his heart dropping to his stomach.
"Yes. He's been promoted, you see. He's told us all about how he's been playing you, Angel."
The way they kept saying angel, like it was a curse, something filthy they needed to get out of their mouths, made Aziraphale feel sick.
"He got your call and told us to meet you here."
"N-no. He w-wouldn't do that."
"Oh sure he would… he got what he needed from you, and now he's done with you."
They were clearly enjoying his agony, it was probably giving them a good boost of energy—all the while draining Aziraphale's.
"Well then." The angel said with as much composure as he could muster. "You've delivered your message. Now leave and let these people go back to their lives."
"See that's the funny thing, Angel."
Aziraphale really didn't like the look on their faces now.
"How many demons do you think it takes to deliver a message?"
"What?" He asked, confused.
"One, Angel. Just one."
"But there's three of us ain't there?"
"Well since we're here and Crowley's done with you… we thought we might have a little fun with the old serpent's leftovers."
"Leftovers?! I beg your pardon!"
"Oh yes do! We like when they beg."
Aziraphale tried to back away, but he barely made it one step before they pounced.
It turns out three was the perfect number. Aziraphale fought back, but once two demons had his arms pulled, outstretched on either side, that left the third all the freedom to lay into the angel.
"Unhand me—!"
The first punch caught him by surprise. The second, somehow more so.
His lip bled and he could already feel the bruises forming.
"Now wait just a mo—!—Oof!"
He took a swift knee to the gut and immediately doubled over in pain. They pulled him back upright and proceeded to kick, punch, and scratch every part of Aziraphale they could reach.
They finally let up enough for him to catch his breath, which Aziraphale thought was shockingly merciful. But then he heard a clicking sound and looked up to see a switchblade quite close to his face.
"Now really!" Aziraphale protested, then turned to spit the blood from his mouth.
Before he could say another word, there was a burst of bright white light. He guessed it must have been angelic because of the shrieks of pain from the demons before they sank below the ground, seeking refuge from the burning holy light.
Aziraphale stumbled backward and fell onto the bench he'd been occupying before. He looked around for the source of the miracle and he saw Gabriel folding his wings back into the ethereal plane. He glared at Aziraphale, and Aziraphale noticed him wincing.
"We're square now, okay?!"
"Wh-what?"
"We're even!" He spat, then rose back into the light through which he had appeared.
After this ordeal, Aziraphale decided it was high time he returned to London. He needed to process all that had happened ...including Crowley's apparent betrayal.
And so he did. He returned to his books and his records and his home. He tended to his physical wounds. Then he tended to his emotional wounds by drinking himself into oblivion, trying to forget all he'd seen… and all he'd heard about the one being in this world he had considered a friend.
PART TWO
Crowley loved New York. It was always so blessedly easy to cause mischief. New York humans were like dominos: all it took was the tiniest little temptation and dozens of people's days were spoiled. There was only one thing New York was missing, in his opinion: a certain Angel of whom Crowley was quite fond.
This is why Crowley was thrilled to receive a phone call from Aziraphale.
"Aziraphale! Ya old so-n'-so! How the heaven are you?"
"Crowley! Oh wonderful—you answered!"
"Yeah. I sure did." Crowley rolled his eyes and shook his head. Aziraphale was not exactly what you would call modern. No matter how many times they had properly executed a phone call, Aziraphale still treated it like a technological miracle.
"I've actually just arrived in the city!"
"Wait...you're in the States? In Manhattan?"
"Yes. I've just checked into a hotel."
"What'd you do that for?" Crowley demanded.
"Well I'll need somewhere to go in the evenings when all the shops and food dispensaries are closed."
"Angel, you shoulda told me—I've got a flat here—an apartment, actually, that's what the Yanks call it. It's only temporary, 'course. But you're welcome to stay here."
"I wouldn't want to be any kind of bother or imposition…"
"Angel..." Crowley grumbled.
"That's fine, dear, just fine. Let's discuss it over some breakfast, hmm?"
"Ngk…. can't, Angel, sorry. Got a ...erm... a job to do today."
"Oh?" Crowley could hear the disapproval in Aziraphale's voice, and also the effort it took the angel to hide his disapproval.
"Yeah. Sort of a big one, so I can't get out of it. I can meet you later though—how's a late lunch sound?"
"Sounds divine, Crowley."
"Well now don't ruin it with all that 'divine' talk."
Aziraphale chuckled and Crowley had to grin at that.
Crowley was looking forward to that late lunch. He couldn't help but walk with a bit of a hop in his step as he left the lobby of the Plaza Hotel—his "home away from home."
He was really looking forward to today. He'd been planning for a while.
Today would be a rather tense home game for New York. The Pittsburgh Pirates may not know it yet, but they were about to start a nasty rivalry with the Mets. Oh there was going to be so much rage—justified rage. Justified because of all the cheating, the sabotage, the rumors of steroid use, the crooked umpires, etc. all caused by countless temptations from the demon Crowley. Today was the day he was going to tempt the entire stadium to join the physical fight.
He was hoping for a full-on riot, complete with fans running onto the field, throwing food and ballpark souvenirs. This was going to be fun.
It should have been.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, we regret to say that this game has been cancelled."
"What?!" Crowley spat, infuriated. Rage radiated off of him: demonic rage. It frightened the humans near enough to hear him growl. They all gave him a wide berth and soon it looked as though there was an invisible force field around the demon.
He needed to find out how to fix this. He needed for this mission to go well. Causing a riot in a public venue would get him some really good points with... down there. Lots of drama to be had where angry sports fans are concerned. And it would keep the sinning going on in waves, pissing off thousands of people in the span of a few hours. He had taken the time to research something as mind-numbingly boring as sports statistics for the sake of picking out the perfect sport and the perfect point in the season to strike. He'd picked American baseball because for some unknown reason, baseball fans tend to be the most willing to throw a punch and insult each other's mothers or appearances. The Mets and the Pirates were on the brink of a brutal rivalry. This. Was. Going. To. Work.
And now it was ruined. And why? Probably because some diva of a pitcher needed to be paid another million dollars and refused to play until he got it.
Crowley had to actively stop himself from burning holes into his pockets with his clenched hands. They'd better have a good explanation for this. Crowley had promised Hastur and Beelzebub that he'd have a Hell of a report by the end of the week and without this final game—when tensions were highest—his report would be pathetic to say the least.
"Shit shit shit shit shit...oh..."
Crowley's attention had been pulled away from his own thoughts as he followed the gazes and pointing fingers of the ballpark fans around him to the sky. Storm clouds, dark as night, were blocking the sun. It was supposed to be a clear day...and those clouds seemed to be awfully close to the ground...
"Oh FUCK." He finally followed the smoke to its source and saw the enormous hole in the side of the World Trade Center.
He could immediately sense the strength that was coming to him in all the chaos. It was a...perk of being a demon: when the going gets tough, demons...get...tougher? Crowley couldn't remember the phrase. All he knew is that this was bad. Not only was the casualty count already shamefully high, but Crowley could feel the power building up in him. Which could only mean one thing: this was no accident... and it was far from over.
All Crowley could think is that he had to get ahold of Aziraphale. He needed to warn the angel and tell him to get to safety. He found the nearest pay phone and dialed the number Aziraphale had called from the night before—a hotel apparently.
"Come on, Angel. Come on come on come ON!"
There was no answer, even after the third try. He was really starting to panic now...Crowley knew his angel well...and he was certain that if Aziraphale wasn't waiting at the hotel, he would be in the thick of this, trying to help.
"Shit. Shit….erm… shit." He was trying to think but it was impossible with all the sirens! He was about to miracle them silent, but thought better of it. And then people started screaming louder and Crowley could have spat hellfire in his frustration—but then he saw why.
Another plane hit, this time the South Tower.
"Oh my God-Ngk!" He nearly choked on the word 'god.'
The way he saw it, he had two options (well, three of you counted the get the hell out of here while I still can option, but Crowley didn't count that option. He supposed it was because the angel's goodness had rubbed off on him) and he could either dive into the chaos and retrieve his angel...or he could do what the angel would do and try to help.
"Oh bless it all…." he cursed and took off running against the crowd to the plaza between the twin towers.
He could feel his hands practically tingling with all the extra destruction and despair around him. Time to put those demonic powers to—dare he say it?—good use.
Trying not to draw too much attention to himself, he knelt down and pressed his palms against the concrete. He had a sinking suspicion that these buildings weren't going to last much longer. He wanted to know which would fall first, which one's foundations were weakest.
After a few moments, Crowley dashed into the North Tower. He miracled his way up the flights of stairs into the crash zone. It was all smoke and flames. Crowley might have been comfortable there, if it hadn't been for the heavy weight of death lingering in the air. He could tell right away, there were no survivors here.
He imagined his angel trying desperately to help their precious humans out of danger. Well the least Crowley could do was buy Aziraphale some time.
He started to absorb the fire—an odd sensation, but not an unfamiliar one. He continued putting out the flames wherever he saw them, but it was too much. He was just one demon! He couldn't do this alone. But without any other options, Crowley continued.
Suddenly, he felt the ground rumbling. The tower was going down any second. Crowley felt for the angelic presence, was Aziraphale here?
Yes! Crowley could sense Aziraphale far below him.
He miracled himself back down to the plaza between the towers and used every bit of strength to hold the North Tower up long enough for the angel and the rest of the humans in the stairwell to get out.
But the rumbling continued. Crowley quickly realized that the South Tower was in similar condition.
"Fuck!"
He held out both arms, palms facing the ground at an angle, fingers contorted with the strain, head down, completely and utterly focused.
Crowley tried, Lord below, he tried so hard, but there was no stopping it. His arm concentrating on the South Town steadily went numb with pain and he simply couldn't hold it steady any more. His arm dropped of its own will and hung limply at his side as the South Tower collapsed upon itself.
He would have tried to protect himself, but he was now putting all his effort into keeping the North Tower upright.
One arm still extended, Crowley drank in every last bit of human misery and used all the power he had left to steady the tower before the debris of the South Tower showered him.
The worst part was that Crowley didn't discorporate at first. After the first tower collapsed, he felt every single sting and ache of mortal pain. He opened his eyes, but it was so dark. Dust and smoke impaired his vision and his breathing. He could feel something odd happening to his lungs. No, he didn't need to breathe necessarily, but this sensation wasn't pleasant. Blood pooled into his lungs at an agonizingly slow pace. Broken ribs digging into him with every rise and fall of his thin demon was essentially drowning. He could hear the muffled sounds of screaming and crying around him. It surprised him to notice that he had joined in.
"Aziraphale!" He sobbed. Just imagining the angel experiencing the pain he was now in was enough to rip Crowley's mortal heart out. He could feel himself slipping away, but he forced himself to remain alert. No. He was not going to discorporate—not until he knew the Angel was safe.
Blinking back tears and blood from his eyes, Crowley felt once again for the angelic presence.
"Yes…" he let out a shuddering breath. Yes the angel was safe. Crowley could practically taste the angelic spirit in its agitation and desire to do good. Crowley took another deep, painful breath and focused again. His arm that had been outstretched, supporting the North Tower, though definitely broken and sending knives of pain through his nervous system, was still clinging to the foundation, willing it to hold.
He was waiting until Aziraphale's aura was far enough away.
"Come on...keep moving…" he begged, worried he wouldn't last much longer.
Finally, Aziraphale was safely out of the way and Crowley could let go. With a grunt, he gave in to the desire to sleep...The North Tower crumbled just like its twin, to the agonizing tune of thousands of screams.
"Wut's goin' on?"
The next thing Crowley can remember is someone or something grabbing him and dragging him away.
His mortal shell was gone. He was his true, demonic self, raw from discorporating and reappearing in the pools of sulfur and hellfire.
Crowley opened his eyes and found his footing so whoever had him by the arms wouldn't have to drag him anymore. It was terribly dim and humid, but that was Hell for you. It was difficult to see, and Crowley had been above on Earth so long that his eyes struggled to adjust. Finally he could make out enough to see he was being lead to what the creatures of Hell like to call the "Surly Gates" as opposed to Heaven's "Pearly Gates." Horrible jokes were like a delicacy down here. It was irritating to say the least, but that was rather the point.
Straight through those black, ominous gates was the throne room. Crowley was confused. He'd only discorporated once before, but it had been a simple matter of filling out the paperwork and reassembling a new corporal form/body. But he was being taken to the throne room… where Beelzebub himself sat and glowered at the unruly crowd that had gathered around to see the demon Crowley return. They were….applauding.
Beelzebub held up a filthy hand and instantly the noise died.
"Demon Crowley. It has been brought to our attention that due to some particularly horrible work from you, a few hundred souls have been claimed for our Master."
"Wait...What?"
"In your dishonorable efforts, it appears that your mortal form perished. In addition to a prestigious commendation, we would like to offer to return you to a human form as soon as possible and waive any paperwork. We'd also like to offer you—!"
"Hang on hang on hang on! What are you lot goin' on about? What the heaven did I do that was so bloody great?"
"Do not be modest, Crowley." The hellish Prince seethed, positively buzzing with annoyance. "Modesty is a ridiculous trait of the righteous. You ought to be gloating."
"Believe me, I'd love to, but I haven't got a clue what you're talking about."
"The terrorist attack on New York City in the United States was an impressive level of demonic interference—!"
Crowley suddenly felt very ill.
"You don't think I had anything to do with that? Do you?"
"Who else?"
"I dunno! But it wasn't me." Crowley spat, disgusted with the accusation.
It was uncomfortably quiet for a few moments when Beelzebub decided to look past Crowley's outburst.
"Your commendation will be awaiting you at your…. place of residence when you've returned."
"I don't want a commendation!"
"You would do well," the Lord of the Flies interrupted darkly, "to remember that our master is impressed by your work today… something that has not been true for nearly two decades. He was starting to think you'd rather lost your touch. You've been very close indeed to landing in a dangerous position. So you will accept this praise and commendation—and quite likely a promotion, or you will receive punishment."
The entire crowd of unholy beasts erupted into excited chatter. Crowley swallowed hard. Punishments from Hell were worse than anything he endured in Heaven or on Earth. He didn't need to think about his answer, but he was bracing himself for the pain he knew he was about to feel.
"What happened up there was beyond any evil I would ever produce. I don't want any fucken commendation or reward!" He spat at Beelzebub's feet and continued to glare, as if trying to use his amber eyes to burn a hole into the middle of Beelzebub's disgusting forehead.
The crowd was really buzzing now.
"Lucifer will be...displeased." Lord Beelzebub said after a very pregnant pause. Then he was silent again. Crowley watched uneasily as a sickly, grotesque smile crept along Beelzebub's blistered lips.
Suddenly, Crowley became aware of a presence behind him. He refused to turn and look, but he knew who it was; Hastur had a very distinct...odor. More than the usual despair and decay… something much worse.
Beelzebub turned his attention to Hastur, and instructed, "tell Him."
Fuck.
Hastur disappeared with a little too much enthusiasm. Crowley tried not to panic. But he knew what was coming. Knowing didn't make him prepared, though.
Blinding, burning pain bubbled up from his very core. He heard the master's voice thundering in his ears, a language no longer spoken by anyone but the devil himself and God Herself. Crowley crashed to his knees as a curdling scream erupted from his mouth. He was burning, burning and it was so far beyond earthly fire or even hellfire. It was something of the devil's own making, reserved for moments like this, for his wrath.
He shuddered and crumbled the rest of the way to the ground. He didn't know where he was, who he was, why he was here...he only knew pain. Lucifer's rage was all encompassing. Surely he would die, surely he would cease to exist… but the devil was not so prone to merciful acts like death.
The next time Crowley became aware of his surroundings again, he had been moved. He was alone, in something like a cell. He'd been in one before, a couple of times, and it was never a good sign. He groaned and tried to put a hand to his aching head, but found he couldn't. His arms were bound by the wrist above his head. Likewise, his ankles were shackled at the base of the wall, forcing him into an uncomfortable standing position.
Oh fucken hell…. He thought to himself. He was in deep trouble now.
Not the he needed the confirmation, but almost as if on cue, Hastur entered from somewhere in the darkness.
"Hullo, Crawley."
"Hullo, Piss Wit…" Crowley responded sarcastically.
If Hastur was bothered by the insult, he didn't show it.
"Now that you're awake, I'm to take you to your trial."
"Since when do we do trials?"
"The Master wants answers. If the attack on New York wasn't one of ours...it's bad for our reputation. Humans can't be better at destruction than Hell. That jus' won' do."
Crowley scoffed loudly, a mirthless laugh.
"Shut it!" Hastur shouted so fiercely, he actually spit on Crowley. As Crowley gagged, Hastur wiped his revolting mouth on his equally revolting sleeve.
"When the Master is finished with you," he smiled, "then you get what's comin' to you."
Crowley, in his demonic form, felt utterly exposed as he was led to a huge space where he knew they evaluated new souls and assigned them their specific eternal damnation. The crowd was back again, clearly thrilled to see The Serpent Crowley punished. Just a little while ago, they'd applauding him like he was some kind of a hero. Their enthusiasm was palpable, he had to give them that much. It was almost as if they were there to see a highly anticipated football match. He flashed them all a cheesy smile out of spite. They booed and he rolled his eyes.
He was forced roughly into a seat in the middle of the amphitheater, once again facing the Lord if the Flies himself.
"On behalf of Lucifer, I am here to ask you questions. You are here to answer them, nothing more. Do you understand?"
"I'm sorry, am I allowed to answer that one?"
Beelzebub nearly snarled, but said nothing else.
"Demon Crowley, is it true that you tempted a group of radical terrorist to complete the heinous acts of September 11th, year 2001 of Earth?"
"No." Crowley said firmly, never once taking his eyes off of Beelzebub's.
"Is it true that you became aware of the planned attacks and then joined in to cause as much damage to human life as possible...like any proper demon would?"
"No!" Crowley hissed, feeling more defensive and snake-like by the second.
"Then is it true that you instead attempted to save lives?" Beelzebub was standing now, his rage agitating the flies around his head into a frenzy.
Crowley said nothing, but still did not look away.
"IS IT TRUE THAT YOU USED YOUR DEMONIC GIFTS AND POWERS TO PREVENT THE LEVEL OF DESTRUCTION FROM ESCALATING TO ITS TRUE POTENTIAL."
The crowd went deadly silent, waiting for Crowley's answer.
He bared his teeth, letting his fangs show.
"YES." His low hiss echoed as though he had shouted it.
The entire room erupted with sounds of outrage and disgust.
As the noise died down, Hastur stepped forward.
"Clearly you are guilty of treason… but I have one more question."
"No Hastur, I will not accompany you on an earthly couples retreat."
Crowley's only defense was his sarcasm, and he was going to milk it for all it was worth. He'd rather make an arse of himself than lose face in front of all of Hell.
"Funny…." Hastur sneered, making it clear he didn't find it funny at all.
"Crowley, earthbound tempter of souls, maker of mischief, serpent of Eden … did you also use your powers to save an angel."
The crowd gasped in horror—clearly just the reaction Hastur had been looking for.
Crowley hadn't been expecting that. How did Hastur know? How much did he know? How long had he known? He should say something really clever—make them think Hastur was lying.
Instead he just said, "What?"
"Have you been consorting with a Principality?!" Hastur spat.
"I honestly have no idea what you mean. I did sense an angelic presence there, but I just assumed it was there collecting the souls that somehow got a spot in heaven."
Crowley lied and lied well. He had to. Aziraphale's safety was at risk.
"WHAT?!" Hastur was beside himself, enraged that Crowley didn't fess up.
"Can we get on with the punishment bit now?" Crowley asked in a bored voice, "Or are you punishing me with this frankly ridiculous line of questioning? I mean, it's stupid, and Hastur's stench is overwhelming even at a distance...but surely Hell can do better—or rather, worse than that."
Hastur looked like he wanted to pulverize the demon right then and there, but Beelzebub interrupted before he could even start.
"Enough, Lord Hastur. We will meet briefly to discuss what punishment is fitting for you, Crowley."
When they said briefly, they really meant it. It took them mere minutes before they came back, all wearing grins dripping with malice.
"Demon Crowley, it is the decision of this council to send you back, to continue your role on earth."
"Wait what?" Crowley couldn't believe his luck.
"We will return you to your earthly body."
Crowley was confused. Nothing sounded bad so far. This had to be a trap.
"To you current earthly body."
Shit.
"Are you serious?! But it died- I died! It's not there anymore!"
"Sure it is. Those pathetic rescue teams are about to discover another survivor."
"No! You can't just-! I was destroyed!"
"Not quite. You love humans so much? Why don't you live like one for a while. Your powers will be returned to you when you have fully recovered. You will experience no relief from your physical pain until that time."
Four lower level demons had to grab Crowley and pull him from the room.
As he was dragged away, Hastur looked at Crowley and sneered, "good luck with the recovery."
It may not have been Satan's wrath tearing him apart from the inside, but Christ did it hurt.
He was positively blinded by the pain. The only thing outside of himself that he had any awareness of was flashing lights and a hell of a lot of noise. He cursed and spat and screamed to no avail.
Any mortal medication they gave him did nothing for the pain...it only made him sleep.
Apparently his injuries were more extensive than he had realized before he discorporated. Spine fractured in seven places, cracked skull, both legs broken, one dislocated shoulder, one broken arm, one utterly crushed hand, two collapsed lungs, five cracked ribs, one broken nose...and a fucken partridge in a fucken pear tree.
It was agony. He was in Hospital for a few days—he wasn't sure how many—and he was convinced that he couldn't possibly feel any worse. Leave it to Hell to rise to the challenge.
The pain was so constant and so intense that any amount of self-control and patience he might have had was drained from him within five minutes of waking up. So he was already quite cross when the nurse came in...his mood did not improve upon seeing that Hastur, Duke of Hell, was apparently his new caretaker.
"That dress isn't doing you any favours, mate." He croaked, unable to muster up the strength to say anything really nasty.
"Oh poor Crawley." Hastur sneered.
"It's Crowley you twat." Crowley grumbled half-heartedly.
"Jus' thought we'd check up on you."
"How sweet." Crowley hissed, "now Fuck Off!" With his one good arm, he chucked the television remote at Hastur's head. He hit his mark and in his surprise, Crowley laughed, then immediately groaned and coughed violently.
"Wonderful." Hastur mocked, "Now if you're done embarrassing yourself, I have a bit of news."
Crowley was busy trying to catch his breath, still not used to the mortal need to breathe.
"I jus' thought you'd probably be worried about your lil' boyfriend."
Crowley froze.
"I know you denied it, but seein' as I know the truth, I figured you'd want someone to check up on him."
"What did you do?" Crowley snarled, causing another coughing fit.
"Jus' what I said: I checked on him. I thought he'd like to know about your recent success. Promotion's a big deal. All that hard work you put into pulling off that attack."
"I didn't!"
"Shhh shh. Don't push yourself." Hastur's delight at Crowley's pain was just appalling.
"Funny, though, he didn't seem very proud of you. In fact...he seemed very upset."
"Hastur, I'll kill-!"
Hastur grabbed Crowley's chin and forced his mouth shut.
"I knew you would be worried. So I sent some boys up here to...ah… keep him company."
Crowley tried to wriggle free but only whimpered in pain from the effort.
"See, he seemed to be under the impression that you were going to meet him somewhere. Sent you a message, he did. Wonder how he got a feather of yours... Well, obviously you didn't get the message and you weren't going to show up...so I sent them in your place."
Crowley struggled again in Hastur's tight grip again, ignoring the pain.
But the Duke of Hell just laughed, his foul breath pouring over Crowley's battered face.
"Don't worry Crawley, you'll be recovered before you know it, just try to take it easy and rest." With that, Hastur landed a vicious slap to Crowley's face.
The next time he came to, Crowley only had one thought: Aziraphale.
He needed to get out of here and find his angel. He needed to heal and fast...but his powers were gone. He needed to talk to him, hear his voice, know that he was alive.
He needed a phone.
He'd insisted Aziraphale get a telephone about 50 years ago, it was just too difficult to get ahold of Aziraphale whenever Crowley wasn't in London. He'd memorized the number partially because otherwise he'd have to write it down….but mostly because Aziraphale couldn't remember the damn thing himself and had to ask Crowley to remind him every other day.
He glanced around the room. Sure enough a phone lay on the table by the window...across the room...completely out of his reach. Out of habit, he snapped his fingers.
"Shit…"
He glanced up to the heavens, "You really don't like me much, do you?" Not that he expected Her to answer.
Crowley took a deep, agonizing breath and pushed himself upright. Lord it hurt. He was pretty heavily bandaged, so maybe if he was really really careful, he could make it to the—.
"Oh fucken hell! Shit shit shit shit! Oh son of a buggering arse!" Etc. His yells attracted the attention of the hospital staff.
"Mr. Crowley, what's happened?!"
"Phone…" he panted from the floor, "needed...AH-! N-needed the…. the phone."
After a good deal of help, and a lot of cursing and verbal abuse from the patient, Crowley was finally back in bed. The staff were about to leave when…
"Oi! What was the point of all that if I don't have the phone?"
"Sir, the phone cord—it won't reach."
"Get me a damn PHONE!"
Clearly they were frightened of him and that did make Crowley feel a little better. And anyway, it worked. To keep the patient from throwing things at them, they found a way to get "Mr Crowley" a phone to use.
"About bloody time!" He growled. They stood by waiting.
"You can leave now!"
The way they scurried from his room almost made him smile...almost.
He dialed the long distance number.
"Come on, pick up."
It rang and rang and rang.
"Come on, Angel…"
No answer.
Aziraphale didn't sleep. He didn't really do anything at night except sit in his bookshop and read. Given the time difference, it was definitely late in London right now. It worried Crowley immensely that Aziraphale didn't answer.
He dialed again.
He did this several times but never got a response.
The only thing left for him to do was wait patiently until he was fit enough to leave on his own. This was not going to be easy. Crowley hated being patient.
December 12, 2001
London
For the past three months, Crowley called the bookshop every single day, but never received any answer. With each passing day, Crowley grew more anxious.
The recovery process was grueling and long.
It was months before he was strong enough to leave New York, but the moment he was discharged and released from the hospital, he was gone.
By the time he reached the corner where the A. Z. Fell and Co. bookshop sat, he was thoroughly exhausted. It had been a long day of travel. He was still in so much pain. He'd been told it could take more than six months for his right leg to heal due to the severity of the break. His left leg was better, but still quite painful. His left hand had been crushed, so it was still tightly wrapped. How humans could tolerate waiting this long for their bodies to heal properly, he simply could not understand. If he really were mortal, the injuries he received would have affected him the rest of his life. He could at least be grateful knowing he would, eventually, completely heal. Besides, they'd given him a cane when he refused crutches, and if he were being completely honest, Crowley had to admit he liked the feel of it. It brought him back to Victorian England where walking sticks were an essential part of his everyday wardrobe. It just happened that he actually genuinely needed this cane, but that didn't meant it couldn't be fashionable too.
Despite his own physical pain, Crowley's mind was occupied by only one thing: seeing that the angel was safe. He cursed himself for having taken so long to get here, but that couldn't be helped.
He reached the door and hesitated. Normally he would have just miracled the doors open and waltzed right in, but he was frightened of what he might find inside, if Aziraphale hadn't been answering his phone for three straight months.
He took a breath and tried the handle. He saw the open sign, but knew better than to trust it; Aziraphale kept notoriously odd hours—no doubt another ploy to discourage customers from coming in and buying his precious books. Luckily, the door gave. The shoppe was open.
He walked in and was not at all surprised to see it mostly empty. There was no sign of his angel, but his presence was painfully obvious. He's here. Crowley could have cried in relief. Then Aziraphale appeared, carrying a large stack of books in his arms. He set the books down on the front counter with a huff and he turned around.
When Aziraphale spotted Crowley, he froze. Crowley felt himself freeze too… there was no friendly spark in his eyes, no joy at seeing him, instead there was something else—something Crowley had rarely ever seen directed at him, certainly never this intensely. Loathing.
After a bit of a pause, Aziraphale announced to his few customers that he was about to close up the shoppe for the day. As everyone else left, with absolutely no purchases, Aziraphale never took his cold eyes off of Crowley.
Finally Aziraphale snapped his fingers and the front door slammed shut, the locks clicked, and the sign flipped around to read Closed.
"Well." Crowley attempted after a long silence.
"You've got a lot of gall to come here, Crowley."
"What? What're you going on about? I came here to make sure you were safe!"
"Oh yes, I'm sure you did." Aziraphale's tone did NOT indicate that he was actually convinced of Crowley's noble intentions.
"It's true! What the heaven are you so mad at me for?! If anyone should be mad at anyone I should be mad at you!"
"Me?! What did I do?!"
"Three months I've been trying to call you! Never a single answer. Then I show up here, out of my mind with worrying and not only are you perfectly fine, you also treat me like shit? Start yelling at me like I've done something awful to you!"
"Maybe not to me specifically, but surely you must feel some remorse for those innocent people."
"What're you-?! Oh." In his hurry to get to London and ensure Aziraphale's safety, Crowley had forgotten why he was so desperate to get there. Hastur had poisoned Aziraphale against him, and evidently it worked.
They were both silent for a while, before Crowley said "You think I did it, don't you?"
"Well what else am I supposed to think?! You have this big mission that you can't tell me about, and suddenly the world is on fire and I hear from your colleagues that I won't be seeing you anymore because you've been promoted! Well congratulations. If you don't mind though, I'll be keeping my distance. You can see yourself out."
He grabbed a book at random and walked swiftly to the back room.
"Angel, please listen—!" Crowley followed as fast as he could.
"No!" Aziraphale whipped around furiously. "No, Crowley! Do not get familiar with me! I'm done! How could you possibly expect me to forgive you after what you did?" He was close to tears now, and all Crowley wanted to do was cross the room and comfort his friend. But he stopped himself; clearly Aziraphale did not want to be comforted.
Instead, they were both silent for a while, neither one willing to move.
Aziraphale stared at this demon he used to love, obvious hurt radiating off of him in waves that crashed over Crowley's heart.
The angel noticed something different as he glared at the demon. His aura was so very dim. And more than that, there was sweat on his brow and he leaned far more heavily on that cane than should have been necessary.
"What's the matter with you?" He asked, a little more sharply than he'd intended.
"Thought you were done with me." Crowley hissed through gritted teeth.
"I am!" Aziraphale snapped, but softening despite his best efforts. "I'm just… curious."
"Of course you are." Crowley's anger was bubbling up fast and he didn't want to take it out on Aziraphale. "Don't worry about it, okay? It doesn't concern you!"
"Fine!"
"Fine."
Crowley started walking back to the front of the shoppe.
"Why are you limping?" Aziraphale asked suddenly, making Crowley stop.
Without turning around, he said, "it's not your concern, Angel."
"Crowley…?" Aziraphale started, feeling concerned anyway.
Crowley lifted his battered hand to silence the angel. Aziraphale noticed it was shaking...as was the rest of him.
"If you wanted to-...to sit down for a moment, you could."
"Don't need to sit down…" Crowley huffed out, looking like he very much needed to sit down.
Aziraphale noticed something else.
"Crowley where's the Bentley?"
"Frankly, I don't really know. Haven't seen it in a while." Crowley had been on his feet for quite some time now and the pain was catching up to him. His breathing was much too laboured to be normal. He didn't have the energy to resist Aziraphale's help when he reached out to steady him, though he did try.
"Really now, Crowley. Don't be so stubborn. Let me help you!"
"Don't need help, Aziraphale!" He tried to shake the angel off and walk away. Two feet from the door, Crowley's legs betrayed him. They slid out from under him and he crashed to the floor. He cried out as he instinctively reached out both hands to brace himself before he hit the floor, "Christ!" He spluttered, holding his badly injured hand close to his chest, gasping with pain.
"Crowley!" Aziraphale rushed over to him and knelt down. "Here, let me help you up—!" He reached for both of Crowley's hands.
"No! No! Please...don't touch it…" he gasped before he could stop himself, shielding his hand, taking it out of Aziraphale's reach. He closed his eyes tightly and tried to breathe. He was so embarrassed that Aziraphale was seeing him this way. He attempted to will his breathing to slow down and his shaking to stop.
"Come now, don't be ridiculous! You need assistance."
Crowley wanted to argue, but the Angel was already hooking his strong arms under Crowley's uncharacteristically weak shoulders.
Crowley groaned and growled in discomfort, but allowed the Angel to help him to his feet. He mumbled out his thanks and tried to make for the door again. For a second time, Crowley's knees buckled and he nearly collapsed. This time, Aziraphale caught him before he could hit the ground.
"No. No, I don't think so dear." He steadied Crowley and wrapped the demon's good arm around his neck for support. "I insist you come sit down."
Weakly, Crowley said something that sounded like "well if you insist…"
Aziraphale felt the corners of his mouth quirk up briefly. He'd really missed his friend.
Even returning to the back room with help took a lot out of Crowley. Aziraphale set him down as gently as he could onto the ancient sofa. Crowley gritted his teeth and his breaths came out ragged. Hoping to ease his pain, Aziraphale crossed the room and made drinks, making Crowley's a little stronger than usual.
"Here, see if this helps."
"It won't. They made sure of that." He growled bitterly, but accepted the drink anyway. He downed it in one go. Aziraphale took his glass back and refilled it again.
"Thanks…"
"Crowley….please tell me what happened."
There was a long silence in which Crowley finished his second drink.
"Didn't do it…" he sighed, not meeting the angel's eyes.
Another drink.
"Explain this to me, please." Aziraphale practically begged.
Crowley looked back up at the Angel...at his angel. He threw back the third drink, set the empty glass down, reached up and removed his glasses. He pinched the bridge of his nose gingerly and let out a long sigh.
"Why didn't you ever answer your phone?" He asked suddenly, partially in an effort to stall the conversation and partially to spin some guilt around and back at Aziraphale.
"Oh. That. Well." Aziraphale blushes and nursed his own drink. "I might have disconnected it...accidentally."
"You what?"
"I was moving things around and it must have come...erm… un...un…"
"Unplugged?" Crowley suggested.
Aziraphale nodded and Crowley had to laugh.
"You are utterly helpless, Angel. You know that?"
"So I've been told." Aziraphale blushed again.
After another long silence, Crowley figured he couldn't avoid the question any longer.
"I didn't do it." He said again. "I swear to you, I didn't. I was completely horrified… I ran in to help...but there wasn't much I could do. Then, when I realized the towers were going to come down, I tried to keep them upright."
"You what?!"
"Hey—it worked! At least for a little while. Anyway, when they came down...I wasn't exactly in the safest of spots….and well…" he trailed off.
"Crowley?" Aziraphale asked hesitantly, "Did you...did you...discorporate?"
"Yeah a bit." Crowley answered much too quickly and much too lightly. Aziraphale knew better.
"Oh Crowley… I'm so sorry. That must have been awful."
"Yeah...well. Is what it is."
"What happened at your...erm...head office?"
Crowley barked a laugh, the whiskey had warmed his cheeks and loosened his tongue.
"Tried to congratulate me, didn't they? Tried to reward me for a job well done! Well I basically said that I didn't want it and they could all go fuck themselves."
"Oh Crowley, you didn't!"
"Yeah they didn't seem to like that too much. So they decided to punish me instead."
"Oh dear…"
"It's sick angel, really sick what they are willing to do."
He heaved a great sigh as Aziraphale once again refilled his glass.
"They decided to give me my body back… my current body."
"Surely you don't mean—!"
"Yep! They sent me back to the body beneath all of the rubble. They said if I like humans so much, I should live like one for a while. Christ it's been awful, Angel."
"I can only imagine… so these injuries? They're from New York?"
"Yeah…"
"But Crowley, that was months ago! Why didn't you heal yourself instead of suffering like this?!"
"That's the thing, Angel." Crowley slurred slightly, his tolerance for alcohol much lower than he was used to.
"They wanted me to live like a human for my punishment."
"You mean…?"
"No powers whatsoever. They said I'd have to recover from my injuries fully before they gave them back."
"Ah." Aziraphale couldn't believe just how cruel Hell was willing to be to one of their own. "So...it'll be a while yet, won't it?"
Crowley grunted as he shifted in his seat and winced, "I'm thinking so."
"Crowley, dear, I'm so sorry." The guilt was threatening to overcome Aziraphale's sensibilities.
"Never mind that. Did they hurt you?" Crowley was suddenly dead serious.
"What? No! Well...yes they roughed me up a bit, but I'm fine Crowley, really I am."
Crowley shut his eyes tightly and hissed. "Oh I'll kill them."
"I don't think you'll be doing much of anything for a while, my dear." Aziraphale smiled sadly. He watched as Crowley's brow relaxed, his eyes stayed closed.
"Yeah, we'll see about that." He mumbled. He was clearly exhausted.
Aziraphale watched him closely, feeling awful for not trusting his dearest friend.
"Of course dear." He said, humoring Crowley's empty threat. Crowley's breathing slowed and his body gradually went slack. Aziraphale crossed to his friend and set aside Crowley's empty glass. Ever so gently, he took Crowley's sunglasses and set them on the table nearest the demon's reach. Then he set to work making his friend as comfortable as possible.
Slowly, the angel removed Crowley's shoes. He carefully maneuvered him to be lying horizontally on the sofa. He grabbed a pillow and placed it beneath Crowley's lulling head.
Aziraphale wanted to make sure he was doing everything he could to make absolutely certain Crowley would heal as fast as possible. So he inspected his heavily bandaged hand and decided it needed some ice. He also took a closer look at the worst of Crowley's legs. He hadn't noticed the brace before; it blended in with his black pants. Once again, guilt threatened to swallow him up. He wasn't sure he could have handled the level of pain his friend had clearly endured. Pushing forward, Aziraphale took another pillow and used it to elevate Crowley's leg. He got the ice and carefully applied it to Crowley's injuries. The demon winced a little at the touch and shivered. So Aziraphale miracled the softest, warmest blanket he possessed into his arms and he lovingly covered Crowley with it
Satisfied that he had done all he could for now, Aziraphale turned away. But before he could go back to his book, a shaking hand grabbed his wrist. The angel turned back and saw that the snake-like eyes were still shut, but sure enough, the hand belonged to the pitiful creature sleeping there.
"You know I wouldn't…" Crowley mumbled, his voice thick with something Aziraphale recognized as sadness.
"Wouldn't what, dear?" He asked, kneeling beside him and obligingly taking Crowley's hand into his own.
"Please tell me you know...I'd never...never do anything like that." Though his voice was congested with sleep and his eyes were still closed, his tone was positively, heartbreakingly serious.
Aziraphale realized he was talking about the terrorist attacks.
"Yes, darling, I know. I'm sorry I doubted you for even a moment."
Crowley relaxed at this and his hand went limp as he fell back to sleep.
Aziraphale hesitated, then bent down and placed a kiss, a sort of promise, on Crowley's forehead. He would protect him. He would keep Crowley safe until he was well again. Because, and he realized suddenly that he knew this with absolute certainty, that Crowley wouldn't hesitate to do the same for him.
END