Chapter Text
Aziraphale woke up.
This was enough information to know that something bad had happened. Aziraphale almost never woke up, for he didn’t sleep unless forced too, so waking up was already a clue.
Of course, he added to himself as he opened his eyes, finding himself hanging head down by his ankles, wrists bound behind his back, was another.
Oh, dear. This is not good.
He closed his eyes again, unwilling to let whoever had captured him realise he was conscious. A quick check confirmed his first suspicion. Yes, the bindings had been cursed. No way to free himself, or miracle anything, as long as he was restrained with these ropes.
What had happened exactly?
He remembered… an evening out. They had dined in that lovely little restaurant next to the opera (he’d taken the Mofongo), then they’d watched La Bohème (the performers had been enthusiastic, if not exceptional), then…
Then, he couldn’t remember clearly. But he was almost certain Crowley hadn’t been with him after that.
See you later, angel.
Yes! The demon hadn’t accompanied him back to the bookshop! Aziraphale had wanted to walk back, to enjoy the surprisingly warm night, and bless a few passers-by on his way. Crowley had decided to follow a group of politicians that were loudly comparing the evening’s performance with every other they’d attended so far.
They weren’t very nice in their criticism, to be quite honest. The angel had thought his dear friend would be able to have a lot of fun with these ones. Entitled, condescending, and powerful men always had been one of the demon’s favourite targets. Aziraphale himself, in the Arrangement’s days, had sometimes taken some satisfaction in-
The sound of heavy footsteps approaching interrupted the angel’s musing. He focused on relaxing his muscles and breathing evenly. Appear unconscious, and maybe...
The footsteps stopped in front of him. Shit. They know I’m awake!
A raspy, unsettling voice confirmed his suspicion. “Hello, angel. So we finally meet again.”
Aziraphale’s eyes shot open in disbelief. “Hastur?”
The Duke of Hell smiled, showing blackened, rotted teeth. “Missed me?”
“Honey, I’m home!” yelled Crowley, entering the bookshop with a large grin.
The night had been delightful. He’d ruined the career of three dirty politicians with only one paparazzo, and that was a personal record.
Their fault. Never accept a bribe without closing your curtains first. Rookie mistake.
Sighing contentedly, the demon aimed for the backroom. A friendly argument, a good nap, and his day would be-
Wait. Where was the argument? The angel always tutted and harrumphed at the “honey” line. What if I had a customer? What would they think , Crowley!
“You here, Aziraphale?”
No answer. That goodie-two-shoes angel was probably still out and using all his Grace to bless strangers.
Crowley sighed. No bickering then. He could go to bed (well, couch) already, but it was late, and it had started to rain, and his stupid angel wouldn’t want to use a miracle to keep himself dry where humans could see him.
He would need a cup of cocoa upon his return.
Crowley aimed for the kitchen. He was fairly certain they still had marshmallows somewhere.
Climbing the staircase, he didn’t notice the little golden chain on the floor, hidden in the shadows.
“What in Heaven’s name do you think you are doing, Duke Hastur?” snapped Aziraphale, who, while hanging face down, still managed to appear as outraged as a dowager Countess confronted to a not-so-fresh cucumber sandwich.*
*Which, considering some dowager Countesses, wasn’t that much of a feat.
The demon’s sickening smile grew larger. “Why, I am wooing you, obviously!”
“Wooing,” repeated Aziraphale with a deadpan expression.
“Yes! I have to prove to you that I am worthy! See how cunning I am? I got you by surprise and abducted you all by myself! I didn’t even leave a trace! Are you impressed? You are not easy to ambush but I still managed it. And Crowley wasn’t even there to help you! I would never let that happen if I were your demon!”
The angel rolled his eyes and heaved a frustrated sigh. Great. Absolutely perfect. He was trapped and bound with a lovesick, sadistic demon, and didn’t even get his one o’clock cup of tea.
If Hastur discorporated him, he would never hear the end of it from Crowley.
“How are you even able to talk to me? I thought the contract you made with Crowley forced you to avoid me?”
The Duke chuckled. “Beelzebub destroyed the contract.”
Aziraphale wasn’t prone to anger, but he squinted his eyes murderously. “Beelzebub? They did it?”
And he had thought that he and the Lord of the Flies had some kind of an agreement since he’d helped them enter Eden to steal an apple in order to strengthen their position on their throne. You really couldn’t trust the rulers of Hell. It was depressing.
“Yes. They checked Crowley’s files and noticed a contract between us. They destroyed it themselves. Said Crowley was to be left alone now.”
The angel frowned. “Wait. Are you telling me that Beelzebub thought they were helping Crowley by destroying the contract?”
Hastur laughed out loud. “Yes! They didn’t even ask me what it was about! They were persuaded it was something bad for him. Isn’t it funny?”
“I am not sure we share the same sense of humour,” declared Aziraphale coldly.
“Aw, don’t be like this, angel. We both know it was destiny. I will always come back to you, like Frank Churchill to Jane Fairfax!”
I knew the Austen DVDs were a mistake, thought Aziraphale.
He really should have been worrying about his situation, he knew it. But Aziraphale being Aziraphale, he focused on the real emergency.
“Frank Churchill? That’s your example? Frank Churchill?”
“Well, he is faithful,” answered Hastur defensively. “I think he is great. You deserve better than a Willoughby.”
The angel’s face got red, and it had nothing to do with his position.
“EVERYONE DESERVES BETTER THAN A WILLOUGHBY!”
“Then who do you think is good enough for you, angel?” snapped Hastur, who had spent a lot of time studying Churchill’s smiles and voice, and was a little frustrated to know it had all been for nothing.
“Were I interested in romance, I wouldn’t settle for less than a Knightley or a Bingley,” answered the angel with a pout.
Hastur gasped. “But Bingley is NICE! I can’t be nice ! It’s disgusting!”
Well it may be disgusting to you, but he at least got his angel in the end, thought Aziraphale’s sarcastic side.
Crowley was starting to worry. Well, not worry, no; no self-respecting demon would worry, but- Aziraphale should have been back by now. That angel loved his shop, and never missed his one o’clock tea if he could help it.
He could have decided to stay out, evidently. Met a particularly lost soul and wanted to help them, wouldn’t be a first. But the one o’clock cup was sacred, and what if something had happened to him?
Unable to stay still, Crowley eased himself off his couch and started to pace the backroom, shooting involuntary glances at the cooling cup of tea every ten seconds*.
*the cold cocoa had ended in the sink a long time ago.
Should he do something? Maybe he should call. Would it be overbearing? It would, right?
Oh, fuck it all ! If that stupid angel didn’t want to be bothered he should at least send a text to say he would be staying out late. They had an agreement after all. Always let the other know when they headed out. This had to apply to coming back later than expected!
Feeling a little guilty, Crowley snatched his phone out of his pocket and dialed the familiar number. An offending sound resonated through the bookshop*. The demon grimaced. Of bloody course Aziraphale had forgotten his mobile. It had been hard enough to make him accept it in the first place.
*Aziraphale was lame at technology but had taken the time to learn how to apply The sound of music’s tune to Crowley’s contact, like the bastard he was.
He pressed the end call button with a snarl. Calling was one thing, materialising near his friend for no good reason was another one entirely. One month ago, he certainly would have, but today they were both pretty safe from Heaven and Hell’s ire, and there was no good reason to fret.
Right? Right.
He’d wait one more hour, he decided, then he’d go check.
He was about to sit (sprawl) back on the couch when an angry squeak draw his attention. Right in front of his left foot stood a very tiny, very fluffy, awfully angry white mouse.
“What do you want, you fucker?” barked the demon.
Algernon answered with a murderous, withering glare. There was no love lost between him and Crowley. Again, he squeaked imperiously something that could only be translated as “follow me, you moron”, and ran to the shop’s door.
Crowley was his own demon, and never obeyed anyone’s orders. It was just that he needed a book, and said book was precisely where the mouse was heading.
All his pretence at cool disappeared when he saw the golden chain Algernon was pushing towards him. This was Aziraphale’s watch chain.
“The fuck,” he murmured, crouching to touch it. No residual energy. None at all. It had been cleaned.
Crowley stayed still as a statue for a few seconds, then snatched his hand back as Algernon tried to bite it. “Oi! I’m on it, okay! Get lost, you little psychopath!”
Satisfied, the mouse ran under a shelf with a sound that could only be described as a snigger. Crowley ran a hand through his hair, looking at the chain.
This was unbelievable. It was the bookshop . Aziraphale had been… what? Attacked? Taken? Hurt? Was the angel hurt ? How could something like this happen in his bloody bookshop?
He reached out, and tried to feel his friend’s presence. He had a knack for it, sensing where the angel was at any time. Unsurprisingly, he couldn’t find him. But it wasn’t the same empty feeling he’d had during Armageddon. So Aziraphale still had a corporation.
Someone was hiding the angel’s presence from him.
Straightening, he pocketed the watch chain and placed a hand on the nearest wall. Nothing should have been able to harm Aziraphale here, or at least not without the bookshop putting on a fight. And he would have warned Crowley as soon as he’d touched the door.
Yep, he thought darkly, feeling the shop’s presence bound and chained on another plane of reality. Thank Someone he hadn’t been destroyed. He took a moment to free the building’s spirit and then closed his eyes to let his old friend talk to him.
It was different from Bentley’s way of communicating. The shop was a strong, quiet, slow entity, who didn’t really care about the world outside his walls. There was only one thing the old building cared about: Aziraphale. And by extension everything important to the angel, meaning Crowley, Bentley, his mouse, and his books.
Bookshop was raging mad. The images flashing into Crowley’s mind were full of wrath and violence, and he had a hard time understanding what had happened exactly. When he did, though, his eyes flashed and he felt scales erupting all over his corporation.
“Freaking HASTUR!” he yelled, making every soul in a one mile radius shiver in their sleep, dreams turning into nightmares.
“Snatching my angel*, binding my bookshop, breaching our fucking contract and trying to steal from me!”
*Possessiveness was a demonic instinct that tended to burst out when Crowley lost control. He was a little ashamed of it. Aziraphale belonged to no one, he was his own angel.
Bentley had rarely seen Father that angry, and didn’t even try to ask him what was going on. He wouldn’t have heard her anyway. She knew it had something to do with Aziraphale, though. Something had happened to their fair friend. She wasn’t stupid, nothing else could put Father in such a mood.*
*Except something happening to her, of course, but she was right there and felt pretty good.
The demon took place behind the wheel and growled an order that no one else could have deciphered, so distorted by rage and hissing was his voice.
“Find the angel, girl.”
Bentley started to drive, aiming for the familiar, soft, comforting presence. She would have been very surprised to know she shouldn’t have been able to feel it. A Duke of Hell’s concealing spell was no small feat, after all.
But Bentley could always know where her angel was. So she drove.
“What on earth were you trying to do by bringing me here, Hastur? Do you really think suspending someone by their feet would help you gain their favour?”
Hastur’s lower lip was starting to wobble. It was the worst dressing down of his life, and he had no idea what to do. Aziraphale had been chiding him for the best part of an hour, and there didn’t seem to be any way to stop him.
He’d tried. He tried menacing, and yelling, and growling. That only had gotten him a blank stare.
He tried tempting him with a cup of tea, and that had earned him a scathing glare and an offended “A teabag? Really?” in a tone he already knew he would never be able to forget.
Not that he wanted to. Such levels of offence and disgust in Aziraphale’s tone were delightful to hear.
He didn’t try torture. Not that he didn’t like torture, of course (who didn’t?). But there was no point in it. Beelzebub had once tried to break that angel for hours without success, and honestly, if the master of torments themselves couldn’t do it, no one could.
Hastur was starting to wonder if he shouldn’t just free the angel after all and try another approach. Maybe Aziraphale would go all smitey on him and discorporate him painfully? One could hope, right?
Then someone knocked at the door.
“Oh, finally,” huffed the angel.
“Angel? You here?” asked Crowley’s muffled voice.
“What took you so long?” answered Aziraphale, glaring daggers at the door, which promptly fell from its hinges.
“Oh! Oh, I’m dreadfully sssorry,” hissed Crowley, slithering inside, barely recognisable. “Of bloody course you would complain about me being tardy in resscuing you!”
Aziraphale’s scowl deserted his face, replaced by alarm. “For goodness’ sake, Crowley, what happened to you? Are you all right?”
“Am I- am I all right? Really? Are you kidding me? You’re the one hanging by the roof like a bloody ham!”
Crowley’s features were rapidly turning back to his usual, lanky corporation, black scales and fangs receding. Aziraphale was bitching, which meant he was fine. Well, except for the ‘hanging upside down’ part and the Duke of Hell snarling at them both.
“Hastur,” he crooned, baring his teeth. “I see you’ve broken our contract.”
Hastur grinned. That was not a nice vision, thought Crowley. Certain things should stay hidden.
“I did not. Beelzebub did. Thought they were doing you a service, ha!”
Oh, great. Thank you so very much, your Lordship of the Flies, thought Crowley with an inward sigh.
“And what exactly do you think you’re doing, if I may ask?”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “He is wooing me,” he explained.
Crowley’s eyes widened, and a delighted chuckle escaped him. “Oh, oh this is priceless! So sorry to interrupt! Should I leave you two to it, then? I can come back later to pick you up if you want, angel, just give me a call when you’re finished.”
Hastur felt his heart sink at the venomous glare Aziraphale shot Crowley. He never had been the recipient of such vitriol.
Yet.
He couldn’t win Aziraphale with that blessed Crawly in the way, and was too terrified of Adam to arm that stupid snake.
“I will come back,” he promised, sinking into the floor. “This is not over! I will win you, Aziraphale! You’ll see I am a much more deserving demon than him!”
“He’s trying, you have to grant him that,” chuckled Crowley, grabbing the angel’s collar and snapping his fingers to dissolve the cursed bindings. Aziraphale landed a little unceremoniously on his feet and rubbed at his wrists, lips tight.
Crowley corked an eyebrow, eyes twinkling. Aziraphale was safe and sound, and he didn’t even have to use the vial of Holy Water that was carefully tucked in his jacket pocket*. “Aw, come on, angel, it was funny.”
*Knowing that Aziraphale had used more than one strong miracle on it to make sure said vial couldn’t break or open by accident was greatly easing the demon’s natural anxiousness.
“To you, maybe,” snapped the angel.
The demon frowned. “You’re not hurt, right?” he asked, starting to circle his friend in search of injuries.
Aziraphale straightened, incensed. “Not hurt? He offered me teabag tea!”
Crowley was a demon, and always ready to have a good laugh at his friend. But even he wouldn’t be so cruel as to make fun of such obvious abuse. “Oh, bless… I’m sorry, Aziraphale. Let’s go home, I’ll prepare you a good oolong, right?”
“Thank you, my dear. You’re awfully considerate.”
“Shaddup, people could hear you.”