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All things considering, Crowley had had a nice day.
He’d felt rather proud of himself, really, getting away with rescuing Aziraphale from the guillotine. Couldn’t let the angel be discorporated, after all; not when they had the Arrangement. Besides, Aziraphale was good at returning favours— and by showing gratitude, this time by taking Crowley to lunch. If this was Aziraphale’s regular response to having nice things done for him, Crowley had thought in between bites, then it wouldn’t hurt for him to keep doing them.
He was wrong. Of course it was going to hurt.
Hell did not send rude notes, after all. Their approaches were more direct. A whack on the back of the head, for example, as one sauntered home in the dark, the taste of crepes in one’s mouth and the twinkle of an angel’s eyes on their mind. It all happened very suddenly, and very fast.
Crowley regained consciousness before he was even aware that he’d lost it. Although that, he supposed dimly, groggily, was quite the point of losing one’s consciousness, wasn’t it? He knew where he was before his surroundings even came into focus. There was no mistaking the smell of Sulfur in the air.
“Mister Slick,” sneered an all-too-familiar voice. “You’re a hard one to track down, you slithery fiend.”
“Hey, Hastur,” Crowley mumbled. The lingering taste of crepes had gone. Now Crowley tasted only blood in his mouth. To swallow or to spit? The age-old question, and not one Crowley had ever considered in this setting.
“I’m sure you’re wondering how you got here,” Hastur said. Crowley could see the dim outline of his coat, ash-white, and the ash-white curls of the aristocratic wig he was wearing. “Or most importantly, how we knew.”
“Knew what?” Crowley realised he was in a sorry state. Boots all scuffed and muddy. Coat removed, thrown in a torn heap in the corner of the dungeon (because yes, it was a dungeon, ironically similar to the one he’d just broken Aziraphale out of.) Hair disheveled and undone, hands tied behind his back. The two demons hadn’t been careful with him.
“What you were doing in Paris, silly,” chuckled Ligur, and he seemed to glide, like an oil leak, straight out of the shadows. First-class lurker, Ligur was. He had one of the Erics in tow. “It was because of something you shouldn’t have been involved in. Someone you shouldn’t have been involved with.”
Shit.
Aziraphale.
“Oh, you must be making a mistake—“ Crowley began, but gasped in pain as Ligur yanked a fistful of his hair to silence him.
“You see, Eric no. 24601 here was astute enough to come straight to us when he saw you leaving the Bastille with that curly-haired angel,” he said, breath hot against Crowley’s ear. Out of the corner of Crowley’s eye he saw Eric shrug nonchalantly. Bad luck, mate. “Says you saved him from the guillotine. Now does that sound like something a demon should do, Crowley?”
“N-no,” Crowley gritted out, hating himself.
“And does it sound particularly demonic to have lunch with the Enemy?” hissed Ligur.
Crowley squirmed. “Unless one was e-extorting the Enemy to indulge i-in gluttony— one of the seven capital s-sins—“ Ligur released Crowley. He knocked him off the rickety wooden chair they’d placed him on, and Crowley tipped over, landing on his knees before falling flat on his face.
“Oof.” He was clearly not getting a commendation this time.
Eric hoisted him upright again, so that Crowley was kneeling on the dusty floor. There was a smoking coal-pit in the chamber, a thing that sizzled and painted the walls in ominous shades of red and orange. Hastur was standing by, poking a long metal rod into the centre. Crowley wasn’t sure what was going on here, but he didn’t trust the sinking of his stomach.
“No, Crowley,” said Ligur, every syllable dripping with malice. “It is not. It is not demonic or acceptable to be anywhere near the Enemy for whatever reason.”
“Unless, of course, you’re tearing their guts out,” Hastur added.
“Just having a bit of fun,” Crowley croaked.
Hastur turned to him then, and perched on the end of that long metal rod was a white-hot iron brand. Crowley vaguely remembered that symbol. A Leviathan Cross.
He squirmed, despite himself.
“You rescued that angel from the dungeons,” Hastur said. “You did a nice thing. And demons are never nice. You should know better than that.” The brand hovered in the air inches from Crowley’s face. He could feel the heat blazing in front of him. “What’s more, your little act of kindness prevented one of Her precious little soldiers from discorporating. You could’ve hindered the Enemy, but you helped them instead.” He shook his head and tutted. “And that won’t do, Crowley. It won’t do at all.”
“It’s nothing personal. The angel is useful to me.” There went his forked tongue again, trying to save his life.
Ligur and Hastur glanced at each other, while Eric looked on eagerly— Crowley was fairly certain he was taking mental notes.
“Perhaps he’s telling the truth, Duke Hastur,” said Ligur, performatively.
“Perhaps. Nevertheless,” Hastur said, “we went to all this trouble, why not punish him anyway?”
Shit. Ligur held Crowley still. One hand roughly yanked up the hem of his shirt, exposing the flesh on the side of his belly. Shit. Hastur waved the Leviathan Cross in front of Crowley’s face before moving it down. Shit. The heat was intense. Crowley’s stomach curled, and he did a thing he had never, ever done in his life, not since the moment before he’d been kicked out of Heaven.
“Please,” he begged. “Guys— don’t do this. It’s not gonna happen again.”
“And this is to ensure that it never does,” came Hastur’s merciless response.
The damp chamber echoed with Crowley’s screaming then, high-pitched and sharp, like the tines of a fork scratching against a plate. There was no describing the pain he felt, the white heat against his side— the whiff of burning skin, the spasm of his muscles as Hastur pulled the brand away, the way Crowley flickered for a moment outside of his corporation from the sheer agony of it. Even Eric seemed to flinch at the sight. When the burning subsided Crowley crumpled onto the floor, whimpering.
“Oh dear,” tutted Hastur. “That sounded nasty.”
“Deliciously nasty,” said Ligur, his eyes gleaming. “Shall we go again?”
“No,” Crowley choked out. “Please. Don’t.”
He‘d survive it for sure, but he didn’t know what this would mean for his powers. Did the brand make him weaker? Would it put a limit on his miracles, the way Aziraphale’s side had written him up with warnings and expected that to be enough? What if Crowley couldn’t use his powers when he needed them, when Aziraphale needed him?
“A second time may help in getting the point across,” said Ligur. “Go on, then.”
The brand was heated in the flames once more, Crowley sobbed onto cold, cracked stone, and Hastur approached again, bearing the white-hot symbol. Searing, unbearable pain in Crowley’s side, the Cross landing in the exact same spot it had before so it hurt twice as badly. Crowley threw his head back and keened. It was like Falling all over again.
And then—
“What is going on here?”
There was no mistaking that shrill, commanding voice. Before either Hastur or Ligur could look up, the short, stubborn figure of the Prince of Hell themself darkened the entrance to the dungeon. Beelzebub marched in and took one look at the ridiculous tableau before them: one demon on the floor, practically half-naked. Two demons standing above him, one holding a sizzling iron brand. Another lesser demon lurking nearby, observing. The air still smelled of burnt flesh.
“Duke Hastur? Are you carrying out specific and unauthorised torture to a high-performing employee?” Beelzebub said, sounding almost shocked.
“Wait until you hear what he’s done,” Hastur said quickly.
“Is that a Leviathan Crosszzz?!”
“Er.”
“You are using one of the most potent sigils to brand another demon?!” Beelzebub was full on furious now. “I can’t believe it. I bet you haven’t even filed the proper paperwork for this! Don’t you idiotszzz know that this sigil uses power? That’s a strain on Hell’s resourceszzz! Resources you don’t have clearance to! Give me that.“ They snatched the rod out of Hastur’s hands, swung it threateningly at Ligur. “And you. Aren’t you supposed to be relieving Choronzon in Brazzzil? What’re you dawdling around here for?”
“Yes, your excellency,” Ligur gulped. “Of course, your excellency.” Into the shadows he went again, smooth as ink.
Beelzebub rolled their eyes. “24601, unbind this miserable serpent.“
Crowley couldn’t even come up with an appropriately biting response. He let the Eric cut his ties and pull him upright.
The Prince lowered their head to examine Hastur’s handiwork on Crowley’s torso. Their eyes narrowed. “Now tell me, Hastur,” they said, without taking their eyes off the symbol that was now rising, dark and raw and weeping, on Crowley’s body, “what exactly happened here to make you think warranted thiszzz?”
Hastur told them. Crowley, as if hearing them from miles away, shut his eyes. When you put it that way, it did sound pathetic— a demon rescuing an angel and then having lunch with him. Like they weren’t enemies. Like they were on a side of their own.
At the end, Beelzebub tutted. “You should have come to me first. Being a Duke of Hell does not give you carte blanche to torture and maim without permission. At least make sure you invite the rest of us to watch.”
“Haven’t you heard a thing I’ve said?” hissed Hastur. “He saved. An angel. From the guillotine. And he let him take him to lunch after!”
“And what have you to say for yourself, Crowley?”
“I’m using him. I’m- I’m trying to win his trust. To gain information.”
Beelzebub glared at him, those shrewd, multi-faceted eyes of theirs glittering. “So you’re playing a long game, are you?”
Crowley clenched his teeth. “Yeah.”
Somehow it was good enough for Beelzebub, who Crowley surmised wanted this mess over and done with as soon as possible. “We’re done here,” they told Hastur. He shot Crowley one last dirty look before slinking off into the shadows.
And all Crowley could manage was “Please...no more.”
The impatient click of Beelzebub’s tongue made Crowley feel like they’d thrown icy water all over him. “No more, indeed,” they said. “I don’t know exactly what you’re trying to achieve here, Crowley, but don’t ever forget yourself...and what you are.”
Crowley looked down at the still-smoking brand on the side of his stomach. Beelzebub followed his gaze. “That’s going to remind you,” they said. “Do you know what a Leviathan Cross does?” When Crowley shook his head, they explained, with barely-concealed satisfaction, “It’s going to burn every time you do something you’re not supposed to.“
And they left, with Eric no. 24601 at their heels, as Crowley’s heart sank.
For the next few centuries after that, the Leviathan Cross burned.
It burned, as if relishing his pain, when Crowley miracled an umbrella over himself and Aziraphale in London as it started to rain. He cried out then, as the pain seared across his side, and for a moment was transported back to the Hell dungeon— the burning brand, the sizzle of flesh.
“Crowley?” said Aziraphale anxiously, and the cry was cut off abruptly.
“Nothing. A pebble in my shoe,” Crowley explained through clenched teeth, and was glad his sunglasses hid the tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes.
So that’s how that goes.
He tried to find ways around it. Counteract the pain with a numbing miracle of his own— sometimes it worked, sometimes it only backfired. He knew, now, how cruel his side could be to one of their so-called own, and that he needed protection from them. Holy water, the most extreme thing he could think of. When asking Aziraphale didn’t work, he tried something else. A nap, for a hundred years, because you couldn’t be punished for something you weren’t supposed to do if you weren’t doing anything at all.
Of course, he could always do the obvious thing and break off the Arrangement, because the mark only hurt him if he used his powers to do something for Aziraphale. In fact, if he told the angel; if he lifted his shirt and let him see the Cross and explained what it did to him, Aziraphale would break it off right away, rather than cause Crowley any more suffering. It would be easy. Angel, look. Remember what I said about my lot, not sending rude notes? Well, they did this to me. They...
He could never bring himself to tell him.
The Blitz was by far the worst, but Crowley managed to hide it well. One miracle after another, and on consecrated ground, no less. It was worth every stab of pain to see Aziraphale safe, and clutching his books. To see the way Aziraphale looked at him as they drove back to the shop.
Crowley cried in his car afterward, the pain in his side singing a cacophony of agony with the burning of his feet.
He couldn’t go on like this.
He couldn’t stop.
So he found other ways to be a good friend. Ways that didn’t need his powers— giving Aziraphale rides, buying him lunch, opening his bottles by hand, listening to him when he’d had a bad day. Crowley learned all of them, and he learned all the ways to say I love you without the words.
And every so often he did use his powers, once he’d gauged the consequence to not be so bad. It only stung a little when he kept Aziraphale’s tea from cooling, his ice cream from melting. It throbbed, like a warning, when he leaned over to blow the paint-stain off his coat. This is as far as you go. You’re a demon, remember? So you should be punished for doing good things.
It hurt considerably worse while he drove through the burning M25. It grew steadily more unbearable the closer he got to the airfield, to Aziraphale, to the ending of the world. And it went on hurting.
Until the moment he stopped time.
After living so long under a constant and painful punishment, it surprised Crowley when he was suddenly met with the reward. At least, that’s what it felt like, these little gestures that made all the stress of the last few days all worth it. Aziraphale’s hand reaching for his. The angel’s soft, fond look as he lifted his glass. “To the world.”
And then, as they exited the Ritz, Aziraphale’s breathless little confession. “I love you.”
The bookshop door closing behind them, shutting out the rest of the world. Aziraphale’s lips on his. Fingers in his hair. His arms, full of an angel, full of love. His own whispered affection. “I love you, too.” There. That wasn’t so bad. That didn’t hurt.
And then Aziraphale said, “Take your shirt off.”
He was drunk, or delirious with passion, or both. Crowley grinned, then he remembered what he had to hide. “Are you sure?”
“Crowley.” He was surprised when Aziraphale’s hand brushed his side, like he knew where the brand was—
A soft sigh, and Crowley pulled his top over his head. The Leviathan Cross stood out against his pale skin. Aziraphale shook his head.
“You have some explaining to do,” he said, voice shaking.
“You were never supposed to see that.”
“I was in your body for hours. Of course I’d notice this.” Aziraphale brushed a gentle thumb over the mark. “They did this to you in Hell, didn’t they?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
Crowley pushed the words past the lump forming in his throat. “Because of you.”
The truth he’d long tried to keep from Aziraphale came out. He watched the angel’s eyes fill with tears as he listened.
“So every time you did something for me— and only for me— it burned?”
“Yes.”
“At the church, when you saved my books?”
“Yes.”
“But that, and your feet—“
“It’s okay. I lived.”
Aziraphale looked hurt, himself. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Crowley shrugged helplessly. “I guess because that meant I had to tell you that I loved you.”
“You are so stupid,” Aziraphale said, crying.
Crowley gave him a wry smile. “I know.” He reached up to brush the tears away with his thumbs.
“You were in pain all this time, because of me. And I didn’t know,” wailed Aziraphale.
“Yes, yes, but listen, Aziraphale— listen.” He cupped the angel’s face gently in his hands. “Something happened yesterday. When you asked me to think of something, and I stopped time— that was a big one. That should’ve knocked me out. But it didn’t,” he said ecstatically. “It didn’t hurt a damn bit.”
“What?” said Aziraphale softly. “And when we switched bodies? What about then?”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Does mean you’re free?”
“I think so.” He leaned his forehand against Aziraphale’s. “I mean, I hope so. But I’m not sure how.”
“Because you chose,” Aziraphale realised aloud. “You decided to choose our side, not Heaven or Hell.”
The angel’s hand was soft and cool, his thumb gently running over the brand as if trying to wipe it off. Crowley felt Aziraphale sob and lean into his chest, his blond curls soft against the bare skin. “I can’t take the mark away, my dear. I’m sorry.”
“Hey, now,” Crowley sighed, wrapping his arms against Aziraphale again. “It’s okay, Angel. It can stay. ‘S long as it doesn’t hurt, I’m good.”
He felt Aziraphale kiss his jaw, his face still wet with tears. “No one is ever going to hurt you again, my love.”
Tomorrow, Crowley thought, as he held Aziraphale tight, he would perform miracles for his angel. There was no consequence to fear now. He’d lay it all on the line— he’d give Aziraphale anything, everything he wanted.
Today, however, Aziraphale was kissing him, and his hands were gentle on Crowley’s bare chest.
It didn’t hurt to love, this time.
Not one damn bit.