Chapter Text
St. James Park, Saturday, the last day of the world
Crowley paced circles around the bandstand as he waited for Azra to arrive, his mind racing. Their little trip to Tadfield had been completely useless, unfortunately, and Crowley had been starting to get desperate before Azra called him, sounding utterly frantic and asking to meet. And thus, Crowley was loitering around by the old bandstand in an oddly (almost miraculously) empty park on the morning that the world was meant to end, waiting for his bunny to arrive and tell him whatever it was he'd found out.
A plan was beginning to form in Crowley's mind, a desperate sort of last-hope thing. He hadn't had any luck with Shadwell and his people, as far as the whole Antichrist thing went. If he and Azra couldn't find the kid, and all of this went up in flames…
Crowley was only waiting for a minute or two before Azra appeared, wringing his hands and glancing around nervously.
“What’s up?” Crowley asked, once Azra reached the edge of the old bandstand. “You okay?”
“Perfectly,” Azra said, glancing around again and hurrying in close. “Crowley– I know where the Antichrist is.”
Crowley’s jaw dropped. “You do? Holy shit. C’mon, then, let’s go!” He grabbed Azra’s hand and pulled him forwards.
“G-go? What– Crowley, wait!” Azra said, stumbling after the angel. “We don’t have a plan yet!”
“Sure we do,” Crowley said. “You kill the Antichrist, and we save the world. Simple enough, I reckon.”
Suddenly, Azra’s hand vanished from Crowley’s, and Crowley stopped, turning around.
Azra’s eyes were wide and horrified. “I am not killing anybody! No one is doing any killing!”
“Bunny, listen, it’s the only way,” Crowley said, reaching once more for Azra’s hand.
“Absolutely not,” Azra said sharply. “You could kill him. You'd just– just thwart me one last time, yes?”
“I’m an angel, I can’t kill kids!” Crowley protested, aghast.
“Oh, please. As if that’s ever stopped your side before,” Azra said sharply.
“Don’t you get all high-and-mighty with me, demon,” Crowley snapped back. “It’s not as though you’ve been innocent in this bloody mess.”
“Crowley, you know we can’t just kill him,” Azra said. “He’s getting more powerful by the moment, I’m not sure we even could kill him if we tried, at this point.”
Crowley blinked. “Wh– no. There’s got to be something…”
Azra bit his lip, then said softly, “It’s the Great Plan, Crowley.”
“Yeah?” Crowley said, rolling his eyes and pacing away from the demon again. “For the record, great, pustulent, mangled bollocks to the Great blasted–”
“Crowley!” Azra said, catching Crowley’s wrist in one gloved hand and squeezing it so tightly it nearly hurt. “You can’t say things like that.”
“Why? I’ll Fall? Not bloody likely, not at this point.”
“Or worse,” Azra said softly. “Crowley, please–”
“This is ridiculous,” Crowley said, pulling his hand free. “You are ridiculous. I’m leaving, bunny.”
“You can’t leave, Crowley,” Azra said, his voice still so quiet, almost pleading. “There isn’t anywhere to go.”
Crowley turned around, facing Azra again, and spread his arms out. “It’s a big universe. Even if this all ends up in a puddle of burning goo, we can… go off together.”
Azra’s face softened, his eyes going wide. “Go off… together?” Then he shook his head, scoffing quietly. “Listen to yourself.”
Crowley felt as though he were about to burst, all the stress of the last few days, the last eleven years, the last six millennia, all bubbling up inside him. “How long have we been friends? Six thousand years!”
“Friends?” Azra asked, his hands beginning to worry together again, his gaze fixed resolutely on Crowley’s collar. “We can’t be friends. We are an angel and a demon, we’re hereditary enemies!”
“That hasn’t mattered for millennia,” Crowley said, taking a few steps forwards.
“That’s all that matters!” Azra cried, his eyes finally meeting Crowley’s, and Crowley stumbled to a stop at the sight of the tears shining in them.
“Bunny, listen, if we just run far enough, they can’t catch us. We could make it.”
“You’re being absurd. You’ve gone mad, Crowley! We can’t hide from this!”
“I’m the one who’s gone mad? Am I? While you’re standing here, refusing to do anything to stop the end of the world because you’re too scared of bloody Gabriel–”
“Crowley, stop–”
“No, I won’t!” Crowley snapped. “I don’t care what Heaven thinks, Azra, I love–”
“Crowley!” Azra took a deep breath, then squeezed his eyes shut and spat out, “Even if I could run off with you, I wouldn’t. We’re on opposite sides.”
“We’re on our side!” Crowley protested.
“There is no ‘our side’, Crowley!” Azra said. “Not anymore. It’s over!”
Crowley froze. It was as though a bucket of ice had just been upended over his head. Azra couldn’t– he couldn’t mean–
But Azra wasn’t looking at him, his eyes still resolutely closed, his hands balled into fists.
“Bunny…” Crowley breathed.
“Go,” Azra said, shaking his head. “If you intend to run off, just go.“
Crowley took a step back, then another, and another. “Right. Well, then.” He turned, walking off, his heart hammering in his ears.
“Have a nice doomsday,” he called over his shoulder, not bothering to turn around. He wasn’t sure if Azra heard him.
He wasn’t sure it would have mattered, if he had.
###
Azra stumbled back to the bookshop in a daze, his limbs leaden and his chest aching.
I did the right thing, he thought desperately. If he runs on his own, he might yet be safe. He’s a Seraph, the Archangels wouldn’t want to risk having to go up against him. He could be safe, still. I did the right thing, telling him to run, getting him to leave me behind.
Somehow, he just couldn't quite make himself believe it.
Carefully, Azra locked the bookshop door behind himself before making his way carefully towards his desk, where The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter was still sitting. He'd read the whole thing through already, and it hadn't mentioned a way to stop Armageddon, exactly, but…
He just had to come up with something. If he could just think of something, some idea, some last, desperate hope, then maybe all of this could still be okay. He would be a traitor, of course, and there was very little chance that he'd survive, but if he could– could get to Tadfield, and just talk to Adam, maybe, just maybe–
Azra's vision suddenly went blank, and he stumbled to the side, colliding hard with an end table, as a voice filled his ears.
You've done it now, haven't you, little rabbit? It was Hastur's voice, and he sounded utterly furious.
"Wh-what–" Azra forced out. "I don't know what you mean."
"The boy," Hastur snarled. "The boy called Warlock. We took him to the Fields of Megiddo, and he knew nothing. He is not our master's son. He said that I…" and Hastur's voice in Azra's head faltered for a moment. "He said that I smelled of poo."
"Ah," Azra said, blinking furiously in a useless attempt to regain his vision. "Terribly sorry about that."
"You're dead meat, Azra," Hastur said, his voice growing louder, loud enough that it was almost painful. "You're bloody history."
The fog covering Azra's vision receded, and he clung to the table he was leaning against to keep from collapsing.
Oh, Lord. This was bad. This was very, very bad.
###
Crowley stood in his flat, staring at the floating pages all around him, covered in images the humans took of the stars and galaxies that he’d helped to build.
The humans had found these things, these objects that were so very far away from them, spanning across massive distances that their brains hadn’t a chance in Hell of actually understanding, and they photographed them, and added those brilliant colours so they could see the shapes better, and they were trying so, so hard to design ways of going to visit the sources of their gorgeous photos, and–
And, by tomorrow, if nothing changed, they’d all be dead, wiped out so that Heaven and Hell could have their little pissing contest on the Earth’s desiccated corpse.
“I know I’m not meant to ask questions,” Crowley said, looking up at the ceiling, up towards Her, for the first time in… shit, he couldn’t even remember how long it’d been. “But You’re meant to be all-knowing anyways, right? So You already know what I think about this. It’s bullshit, by the way. All of it. Heaven and Hell, the Fall, Armageddon. It’s all bullshit.”
He sighed, draping himself across the back of his chair– throne– whatever the hell it was. “They’re brilliant, really, the humans are. Sometimes the ways they’re brilliant are horrifying, but they’re just– they’re so clever. I know, You’re testing them, You said You were going to test them, but… don’t test them to destruction.” He looked over at the globe, hovering just within reach, then reached over and swiped at it, batting it away. “Not to the end of the world.”
Only silence followed his words. Not that he’d expected anything else, of course, but… but it still hurt, in its own way. Crowley remembered, when She’d been around. How different things had been back then. She’d talked to Her angels, while creating things, She’d show them the ropes to get started on their own projects, She’d been warm and kind and so had the other angels, in their own way. Mind, Crowley had always been a bit of an oddball, preferring to hide amongst the stars and avoid his fellow angels, just calling out to Her if he wanted to talk to someone, and back then, She responded. At least, She had, up until…
Up until the Fall. Crowley hadn’t been there, had been hidden away amongst his creations, but he’d heard about it afterwards. Lucifer got jealous of humanity and rebelled against God, against Heaven. About half of Heaven had joined him, nearly fifteen million in total. There had been a War. A third of the angels were cast out. Another third, nearly five million from Heaven’s side and the same from the newly-minted Hell’s, had died, been wiped out of existence, like they’d never been created in the first place. And the third that were left behind retreated into themselves, growing cold and harsh and distant. Crowley was glad he hadn’t been there to see it– a part of him worried, every now and again, about what would have happened if he had.
Afterwards, She’d retreated, leaving Heaven in the care of the four Archangels that remained, sending Her orders through them and the Metatron from that point forward. She’d come back, briefly, to kick Adam and Eve out of Eden, but so far as Crowley knew, no angel had heard Her voice directly since then.
Crowley knew that Heaven, God, had done absolutely awful things, since the Fall of Man. But this… this seemed a step too far. He couldn’t imagine how the God he’d spoken to back in his days building stars could possibly condone this. It was– it was wrong. Absolutely, unequivocally wrong.
“I know You aren’t talking to us,” Crowley said softly, looking Up once more. “But… You can’t mean for this to happen. You can’t mean to sacrifice all of them for– for whatever nonsense grudge Heaven and Hell are holding. Even– even if You are, I won’t– I won’t let it happen. Not if there’s a damn thing left I can do to stop it. Not even if I Fa–”
The old phone on Crowley’s desk rang, cutting off his words, and Crowley stared at it until the answerphone picked up.
Hi, this is Anthony Crowley, you know what to do, do it with style.
“–telephoned you,” Azra was saying, when the message started. “Ah, Crowley, I– listen, I think I have an idea for what to do with the child. We just have to–”
There was a sudden, growling voice on the other line, far enough away that Crowley couldn’t make out the words, but he thought it sounded familiar.
He picked the phone up immediately, preparing to travel through it, saying, “Azra, stay on the line, I’m gonna–”
“Hastur. Ligur. What are you–” Azra said.
And then the line went dead.
“Shit!” Crowley hissed, throwing the phone down and sprinting towards the door to his flat. “Shit, shit, shit!” I shouldn’t have left him alone. I knew we’d be in trouble! I should’ve asked again, should’ve begged him to come with me, I could’ve convinced him. Let him be okay, please, please, just let him be okay.
Crowley made it down the stairs and out onto the street. He could see his Bentley from here, sitting there, gleaming in the sun, and he made a beeline for her–
Only to pull up short as Michael, Uriel, and Sandalphon appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, and surrounded him.
“Hi, guys,” Crowley said, standing his ground as the three Archangels crowded in close to him and forcing what he hoped was a smooth, calm-looking smile. “What can I do for you?”
“We’ve just been learning some rather disturbing things about you, Coriel,” Michael said. “You’ve been behaving like a bit of a… Fallen angel, haven’t you? Consorting with the enemy?”
Panic shot through Crowley like ice in his veins, but he forced himself to ignore it, rolling his eyes instead. “Look, I know you lot don’t like me, but you can’t just say things like that without any evidence to back them up. Now, if you don’t mind, I really don’t have time for this right now–”
He made to push past them, but Michael grabbed his arm, shoving him back, directly into Uriel’s grip. Their hands tightened around his shoulders, freezing him in place, as Michael and Sandalphon stepped in even closer. Crowley spared a glance for the crowds of humans steaming past– none of them noticed a damn thing. Of course not. The Archangels were plenty powerful enough to assault an employee in broad daylight in the middle of London without being noticed. Why had Crowley expected anything different?
“Listen, I think you’ve got this all wrong,” he tried again.
“Don’t think your little blond boyfriend will get you special treatment in Hell,” Uriel said, their voice cold and derisive. “He’s in trouble, too.”
I know, that’s why I need you lot to get the bloody hell out of my way! Crowley thought frantically.
“It’s time to choose sides, Coriel,” Michael said, her eyes fixed, unwavering, on Crowley’s.
Crowley had one play left. It was risky, dangerous as anything, but it was the only option he had.
“Bullshit,” he said. “Listen, I know you’re trying to scare me here, but it won’t work. You can’t make me Fall, not at this point.”
Michael raised a cool eyebrow. “Of course I can. Hasn’t Aziraphale told you?”
“I mean, physically, of course you can,” Crowley said, shrugging broadly and– ah, thank fuck– dislodging Uriel’s vice grip in the process. “I won’t stop you. But, at this point, I know Heaven’s plans. I know all our moves. I’m a Seraph, I’m powerful. Strategically, I’d be a big get for the Other Side, going into the War. You can’t make me Fall, because if you tried it, I’d be able to ruin you.”
The Archangels stared at Crowley, silent, aghast, for a long, long moment.
Then Sandalphon stepped forwards, punching Crowley hard in the gut, sending him stumbling back, directly into Uriel’s grip. They grabbed him once again, this time wrenching one arm behind his back to pin him more effectively.
“Ow,” Crowley said, sucking in a deep breath as spots danced in front of his eyes.
“We may not be able to make you Fall,” Michael conceded. “But we don’t have to.” And then she reached out her hand, energy gathering around it as she prepared to summon her sword.
“Okay, now I really don’t have time for this,” Crowley hissed.
He was a bloody Seraph. He might not have fought in the first War, but he’d gotten into plenty of plain old human scraps over the years. He knew how to fight, and how to fight dirty. And none of the three Archangels were expecting a fellow angel to fight against them.
As quick as he could, Crowley dropped down and twisted towards his pinned arm, pulling it free from Uriel’s grip and swiping their feet out from under them. They yelped, tumbling to the ground, and Crowley used the couple of seconds of shock to lash out with his elbow at Michael, hitting her square in the throat and sending her reeling back, coughing. He summoned a knife, just a plain old human weapon, and launched it at Sandalphon. It hit, sinking to the hilt into the Archangel’s forehead, and Sandalphon tipped back, his eyes going glassy, his body dissolving into ash before it even hit the ground. Crowley whipped around again, letting loose another conjured knife, which hit Michael in the shoulder, and then ducked under Uriel’s reaching arm, stabbing them in the leg.
Then he took off, sprinting towards the Bentley before any of them had a chance to recover, before their miracled invisibility wore off. He launched himself into the driver’s seat and took off, speeding even more recklessly than usual towards the bookshop, hoping against all hope that he wasn’t too late.
###
Azra waited impatiently for Crowley to pick up the phone, his foot tapping against the wooden floor of the shop. He just– he just needed to apologise, to tell Crowley that he had a plan, and ask if the angel would be so kind as to drive him to Tadfield, and then– and then they’d be able to fix this. This wasn’t the end. It couldn’t be. The world wouldn’t end like this.
They wouldn’t end like this.
Finally, finally, the ringing stop, and Crowley’s voice sounded. “This is Anthony Crowley, you know what to do, do it with style.”
“Of course I know who you are, you idiot,” Azra said, frowning down at the receiver in front of him as though Crowley could see. “I telephoned you. Ah, Crowley, I– listen, I think I have an idea for what to do with the child. We just have to–”
And then the bookshop door swung open, and Hastur’s voice sounded. “Hellooo, little rabbit.”
Azra froze, panic flooding through him, as Hastur and Ligur stepped into the shop, their eyes immediately landing on Azra and twin grins spreading across their faces.
“Hastur,” Azra said, carefully, carefully, moving to set the phone back down on the receiver. The last thing he needed was for Crowley to do his little phone line trick here and land in the middle of this. “Ligur. What are you doing here?”
“I thought Hastur made that pretty obvious,” Ligur said, stalking forwards, Hastur on his tail and grinning almost maniacally. “We’re here to collect you.”
“I do hope you know that I won’t go with you,” Azra said sharply, standing up as straight as he could manage. The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter sat beside the telephone, and Azra laid a hand on it carefully, miracling it into invincibility. If Crowley does come here, then at least he’ll have a fighting chance. “I’m not leaving Earth.”
Impossibly, Hastur’s grin broadened even further.
Ligur smirked. “We were hoping you’d say that.”
Azra’s panic was mounting with every passing second. He had to go, he had to get out of there, he had to run–
But there was nowhere to go.
“Perhaps we can talk about this,” he said instead, raising his hands placatingly and taking a small step back, only to find himself pressed up against a bookshelf.
“Ligur’s not big on talking,” Hastur said.
“I’m not,” Ligur confirmed. “And it’s my turn to wreck your little library.”
“Bookshop,” Azra corrected faintly.
Neither of them heard him.
“I was thinking drowning this time,” Ligur said.
Hastur grimaced. “Boring. But it’s your call.”
“We can’t only do what you want to do,” Ligur said.
“W-wait,” Azra stammered, clutching at the edge of the side table behind him. “Please, there has to– there has to be something, you can’t just–”
“Can and will,” Hastur said.
And then he reached out, his hand fastening around Azra’s throat, and Azra tried to cry out but he couldn’t, he couldn’t breathe, Hastur was choking him, and then he could feel water, the ship’s sprinklers had started up, and they were streaming down onto the books, onto the floor, the water was rising and Azra was clawing at Hastur’s hand and he still couldn’t breathe and Hastur and Ligur were saying something else and there were dark spots dancing in his vision and he could see his books out of the corner of his eye, could see the ancient covers and delicate pages dissolving under the onslaught, and the water around his feet was rising and the black spots were spreading and it hurt, it hurt, and he couldn’t even scream–
And then everything went dark, and Azra died.
###
Crowley sped through the streets of London as Azra’s number rang out, yet again. Crowley forced himself not to panic. Azra would be okay. He was clever, incredibly so, and so good at working out loopholes.
He’s also bloody brilliant at getting into trouble, a voice in the back of Crowley’s head whispered, and Crowley forced it away desperately. Azra would be fine. He’d be fine. He had to be.
Crowley pulled up in front of the bookshop and clambered out into the rain, elbowing his way through the crowd of onlookers to–
Shit. Shit, why was there a crowd of people around? Why were there police lining the street? What the fuck–?
And then Crowley took in the shop, saw the water streaming down inside, running in small rivers from the cracks in the windows and the gap under the door, and his heart stopped.
No, he thought, frantically, desperately. No. He can’t– they wouldn’t– even Hell wouldn’t–
Crowley stumbled forwards, shoving his way more firmly through the gathering crowd, panic seizing his chest as he reached out with his angelic senses, searching desperately for an aura, a sign, even a whiff of Azra. He had to be there. He had to be okay. He had to.
“Excuse me, sir, do you own this place?” some random human or another asked.
“Do I look like I run a bookshop?” Crowley demanded as he snapped the doors open, darted inside, and then snapped them shut once more behind them.
There was no sign of Azra. No aura. No glowing, endless love. Nothing but the hiss of the sprinklers overhead and the dripping of water down the shelves, dissolving Azra’s entire life’s work in his absence.
“Azra,” Crowley called out, and his voice came out broken, half a sob, desperate and pleading. “Azra, where the Hell are you, you bloody idiot? I can’t find you–”
He stumbled to the side, his hip knocking against the side table with the phone on it, and he sank to the ground, which was– it was littered with pages, with the remnants of books, and it looked like something had clawed at them, tearing them to shreds, even after they'd already been soaked through. A different book, one that looked almost whole, splashed down onto the floor, and Crowley caught it instinctively, hiding it under his jacket. The books. Azra would hate it if the books...
Then he looked down, and saw the dark smear on the floor, the stain of an occult entity’s dissolved body, and something inside of him just broke.
“You’ve gone,” he breathed, his entire body trembling as his shielding miracle broke, and the sprinklers drenched him through in seconds. “Azra…”
Somebody killed my best friend.
Azra was gone. Crowley had run off and sulked, like a bloody idiot, and then Hell had come for Azra and he was gone and the world was going to end and Azra was gone–
Crowley sobbed, curling in on himself, his tears joining the water already streaming down his cheeks, the one book he’d been able to save still tucked inside his jacket where it was dry and safe and would stay that way.
The rest of the shop was gone. Azra was gone. And Crowley…
For the first time in eternity, Crowley was alone.