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#1. Waking Up Restrained -  Aziraphale's ability to heal sick soldiers has caught the attention of one Civil War general, and he's not too friendly about his request for similar treatment for his own men. But it's been a long war and Aziraphale is just about out of miracles: a worrisome fact that will not go over well.

Aziraphale, as an angel, generally had no use for sleep, and therefore generally had little occasion to experience waking up, but even he was quite certain this was not how it ought to go. His head was throbbing, either from being completely drained of all heavenly energy or from being hit in the head from behind. Probably some combination of both, he conceded. He was also still on his feet, but only because he was being held up by a pair of shackles that had been hung over a heavy beam of the rafters, keeping him suspended by his arms.

"Sir, he's awake," he heard someone say close by.

Aziraphale blearily opened his eyes a bit more as the lights coalesced into vague shapes and then the sharper outline of a man in the dress of a General.

From the opposite army from who he'd been lending his assistance to.

Aziraphale groaned, because gracious his head truly was pounding something awful, but even through the disorienting pain he had to admit sincere relief that his captors seemed to be human. He'd been expecting demons, and that was a thought worth shuddering over.

"You," the General said officiously, standing stiffly in an ill-fitting uniform. "You're the doctor here?"

Aziraphale let his head fall to the side wearily, looking towards the room that was housing the remaining ill soldiers.

"Please," he rasped, so exhausted. "They- they're sick. Don't hurt them... please..." Aziraphale had been trying so hard to save them all, but he could only perform so many miracles in such a short time without either being noticed or collapsing from exhaustion.

"There have been rumors," the General went on as though he hadn't heard. "Of a doctor, an Englishman, who is somehow able to miraculously stop illnesses. Normally I would assume it's pure nonsense but for the fact I trust the judgment and sanity of my men."

So much for having gone unnoticed then, Aziraphale thought, closing his eyes. Gabriel was going to be so terribly angry with him. The angel felt the muzzle of a pistol press against his forehead and his eyes snapped open with a soft mewl of discomfort.

"My men are sick," the General growled. "Dying. More men in their sickbeds than on the battlefield. You've been healing soldiers here. So you're going to heal mine as well." He cocked the pistol, shoving it harder into Aziraphale's head. "Or..."

Aziraphale swallowed, testing the chains. He was so tired, though, so weakened by his recent expenditure of miracles, he couldn't feel the slightest bit of his own angelic power.

"I will treat anyone who requires my assistance," he rasped, sagging in the chains. "Only... I- I'm afraid I must recover some of my own strength first, or I will have none to give-"

"Take him down," the General cut him off, nodding to two other enemy soldiers who had come in with him. He twisted towards the front and snapped his fingers at a few of the others. Two men who had been guarding the door hurried back outside.

Aziraphale bit back a groan as the chain was unhooked from the rafters, permitting him to lower his arms although his hands remained shackled and the soldiers who'd retrieved him held him fast between them. The front door opened and a stretcher brought inside with a man lying on it. No, hardly a man. A boy, really, but in the same grey uniform as the others. Far too young to be seeing battle, Aziraphale wanted to reproach them, but the flush of his face and the rash on what little of his body the angel could see told him that a bullet was hardly his biggest concern.

"Heal him," the General snapped, gesturing. Aziraphale was dragged roughly over to the boy, still held fast.

Aziraphale sighed, bowing his head. "Typhoid fever, I fear." Late stage, at that. Nothing short of a miracle was going to save the boy now, and... Aziraphale had none more to offer. Not until he rested. And even if he did heal the lad as soon as he was able, he would need an additional miracle to make these men forget what they had seen, which would take even more power... It would take days to rally that kind of strength, and the boy didn't have hours. Raising his eyes sadly, Aziraphale shook his head.

The General's face turned stony. His fist was so fast and Aziraphale so exhausted that he barely saw the swing coming before it collided with his jaw, knocking the angel into one of his captors.

"Heal him. I told you, I've heard the rumors. You heal with nothing more than laying your hands on them. You will heal him, because he's my son. You understand?"

Aziraphale gulped, straightening up as the gun was pressed to his forehead once again. Yes, he understood. He understood this man was desperate and that made him exceptionally dangerous. He wasn't given a chance to answer as the two soldiers he was sandwiched between grabbed his arms to forcibly set his hands on the sick boy. Then everyone fell silent and waited.

Oh heaven help him, what was he supposed to do? Aziraphale silently sent a desperate prayer up to Gabriel or Uriel or Michael or anyone who might be listening to spare him just a little bit of extra power to heal the poor boy—and to avoid the paperwork of his discorporation. But no help came, no replenished strength, no angelic assistance. Aziraphale sagged; he was on his own. Biting his lip, the angel summoned every scrap of power that might still be within him, but it was practically nothing at all, and nothing was exactly what happened. It was no use.

The boy suddenly sat bolt upright on the stretcher with a gasp, making everyone—including Aziraphale—leap out of their skins. His color evened out, sickly sheen fading into a healthy pallor, and his breathing returned to normal. Aziraphale gaped, stared at his hands, then frowned. No matter the appearances, that had not been him. His eyes darted over the other soldiers in the room in search of a fellow angel. Or, dare he hope...

"Thank you!" the General gasped, pulling his son in tightly against him, all but crumpled with relief. "Joseph, Anthony, take the miracle doctor out to the wagon. We'll have him start on the rest of the boys at camp right away."

"Anthony," Aziraphale mouthed, eyes latching onto one of the soldiers who'd remained silent and barely moved throughout the entire ordeal, hat pulled low over his face. He stepped forwards now, though, taking Aziraphale out of the hands of the men currently holding him. Together with another fellow, they marched him out the door and into the night. A wagon stood waiting, but they hadn't made it four steps into the cover of the night before the second soldier mysteriously collapsed, and the one remaining snorted softly.

"Why is it always you, angel?"

The soldier lifted his hat at last, golden snake eyes meeting Aziraphale's with exasperation. A snap of his fingers had the manacles dropping to the ground.

Aziraphale rubbed his wrists with a rueful smile. "I could ask the same of you," he pointed out. "Thank you, my dear. What ever are you doing here?"

"Same as you, I reckon. Only, you know, the opposite. Discord and all that. Listen, what happened? Kept waiting for you to miracle him, or at least save yourself."

With a sigh, Aziraphale hung his head. "Well, er... I can't exactly, not at the moment. There's just so many sick and wounded, Crowley... I'm a bit worn down, to tell you the truth. I feel as though I can barely move, let alone use any sort of miracles."

"Where's your backup, then?" Crowley demanded. "You didn't tell head office you'd overdone it a bit?"

"Well... I mean, yes, of course, but..."

Aziraphale saw a muscle in Crowley's jaw tick, but he couldn't exactly blame the angels for the reminder that he shouldn't have been so irresponsible as to overdo it in the first place, but it did seem bad form to leave one of their own in such a state. Not that he would ever say so, of course. Aziraphale could tell Crowley was barely biting his tongue, so hurried on, "And thank you for healing that boy, my dear. It was really quite kind of you."

"No, it wasn't," Crowley snapped, still sore. "Saving my own skin, actually. That General really would have killed you, you know, and with the Arrangement and all... I mean, it's been useful to me, can't have those blokes discorporating my business partner."

Aziraphale smiled fondly at his friend and shook his head. "Of course," he agreed kindly. "Pure selfishness on your part, my mistake. What are you going to do now?"

Crowley shrugged, leading Aziraphale the rest of the way to the wagon and helping him up into it. "Desert, I reckon," he said, taking the seat on the bench next to Aziraphale and glowering at the horses until they nervously started walking. "Seems like a devilish thing to do and I could use a break. You could, too, until you're rested up. No arguments."

Aziraphale yawned, jaw nearly cracking. Rest sounded wonderful, providing he didn't wake up in quite so awful a way. He longed to ask Crowley if the demon would possibly deign to stay nearby while Aziraphale slept but held his tongue. For one thing, there was pride to satisfy for both parties.

And for another, Aziraphale already knew that Crowley would.

Feeling safe and at ease, the angel closed his eyes.

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#3. Forced to Knees - Crowley is caught snooping around Heaven (thanks for nothing, Beelzebub). Uriel is nasty about it. No one is surprised.

Crowley gritted his teeth against the burn from Heaven's entire surface. He was pretty sure he was being punished for something. Why else would Beelzebub have him crawling up some mysterious shaft the angels had bizarrely placed right inside the front door of the building housing the two head offices? It was right next to the staircase and seemed to go straight up all the way to the penthouse.

Crowley had figured he could just pop over to Aziraphale's and ask what it was, but Beelzebub had insisted he climb up to take a look right away, then the demons had all scattered and left him without backup.

He was at the top now and knew nothing more than that it hurt and that once he was up, there was no easy way down, and therefore when he collapsed exhausted out onto the main floor of Heaven, he had no escape route. Crowley was big on having an escape route.

And this was exactly why, he thought with a groan, as a group of angels surrounded his shuddering frame.

"Oh," Crowley said, grinning weakly at the glowering angels. "Erm... afternoon."

"Get him up," one grumbled, then turned to yell over her shoulder, "Uriel!"

"Oh, ah, no need to disturb-" Crowley tried, cutting off with a grunt as two truly massive angels grabbed his arms and dragged him up between them. This was going to end badly, Crowley thought as they manhandled him over to a very displeased looking Uriel.

"Uriel!" Crowley tried nervously. "Lovely to see you again. Have you rearranged your gold spots?"

She remained unimpressed, nodding to the two behemoths holding him. Still grasping his arms between them, they forced him down to his knees.

"Much better," Uriel said with a nasty smile.

"Now listen," Crowley started. "I know this looks bad, but you don't actually have to kill- ow!"

Crowley's head snapped to the side, cheek stinging from the force of her backhand.

"I didn't say you could speak, demon," she said, wiping her hand with almost angry vigor on a handkerchief from her pocket, which she then handed to a minion angel. "Have that burned."

Crowley wanted to roll his eyes, but right now Uriel's mood was the sole determining factor for his survival. He didn't dare speak up again as she turned dark eyes his way.

"Kill you?" she asked, smiling like a smug walrus playing with a dead fish. "Why bother? Crawly, isn't it?

"Crowley-"

"Crawly, alive or dead, you make no difference. You frankly don't matter enough for me to waste any time killing. So you can live, knowing it's only because I'm permitting you to, and you can tell Beelzebub the next spy I find up here will be sent back without a head. Are we clear?"

Crowley gritted his teeth and nodded.

Uriel smirked. "Good. Now then, if you're so interested in our elevator shaft, we should give you a closer look. Are you ready to fall into Hell again? I should think you would be good at it by now."

Despite his attempt at bravado, Crowley felt the blood drain from his face. The feeling of falling was one of the few things that could awaken nightmares deep in his heart, but falling from Heaven to Hell... He saw movement from the corner of his eye, glancing desperately around to see a familiar cream colored coat disappear into the stairwell, but then he was being yanked up to his feet and forced back to the open shaft. Crowley finally started to panic, tugging and thrashing.

"Wait, I'll take the stairs!" he pleaded. "I won't come back, ever, I promise, just don't- no, don't!"

They ignored his pleas, dragging him to the brink, hands nearly breaking his wrists in a bruising grip as they held him in place over the expanse, until they finally let him go with a shove.

The last thing he heard was Uriel laughing, then Crowley was falling. The sensation made him scream like no torture could, eyes wide and limbs flailing as he tumbled headfirst away from Heaven, heading for a burning pool of sulfur. It would burn away his feathers, his eyes, his heart... he would be unmade and broken and replaced with something that was not himself...

He hit the pool with a sickening thud, everything on fire. Crowley couldn't move, body broken, and then a hand grasping his arm. He whimpered and struggled—they would pull him deeper into that awful lake of fire.

"I didn't want this!" he reflexively cried, broken from terror and pain and betrayal. "Please!"

"Crowley, shh, it's me, dear boy," an urgent voice murmured. "I've got you. You're not in Hell, my dear. Quickly, before someone sees!"

Crowley knew that voice, trusted that voice, so he tensely permitted himself to be dragged away. A door opened somewhere and the light was so bright that he cried out again because it was Lucifer, it had to be-

"Just sunlight, Crowley. Hold on, I'm taking you home."

"Aziraphale."

"Yes, my dear, it's me."

"Angel..."

"You're safe, Crowley, my dearest, that shaft only goes to ground level and I managed to slow you down a bit before you hit the floor. Uriel was being quite cruel, telling you you'd be falling to Hell. You're not, you're here, you're safe with me."

He supposed he was. Crowley closed his eyes against the waking nightmares and let the comforting hands guide him home.

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#5: Failed Escape - Taken captive during the war in Heaven, Aziraphale's chances of surviving are rapidly shrinking. But Hell isn't easy to escape, and each attempt only makes it worse.

Aziraphale didn't dare turn around to look behind him, running as fast as his burning feet could carry him. If only he could just fly away, but the demons had been quite thorough in wrecking his wings during his interrogation. No, he'd not be flying out of Hell. And at this rate, he wouldn't be running out, either. It was sheer luck he'd managed to slip away from his captors once, but if they caught him, oh Heaven help him...

The cords wrapped around his legs from out of nowhere, weighted balls on the ends slinging around to clack against each other as Aziraphale cried out and fell heavily to the sulfuric ground. He looked down in a panic, wound with the bolas so tightly that his frantic tugs couldn't free himself. Behind him was the sound of laughter and cheers and his own impending death. Throwing pride to the winds, Aziraphale desperately clawed at the floor of Hell in an attempt to crawl out of sight, but of course he stood no chance and soon he was surrounded by several pairs of burned and blackened feet.

"And where do you think you're going?" a nasty voice asked as Aziraphale tilted his head up in fright. A demon grinned down at him, fangs bared. "Wot, had enough of our 'ospitality already?"

"Don't- don't care much for it, no," Aziraphale replied with only a slight quaver. He tried to duck away as a pair of hands reached for his tunic, hauling him halfway up off the ground.

"Can't miss your own execution," another demon chortled. "Figure it'll make nice entertainment next time there's a break in the battle. What'll it be, beheading? Hellfire?"

"I heard Lucifer is itchin' to execute one for 'imself," the first one confided, jerking his head towards Aziraphale. "Should give that tosser Gabriel a bit of a pause, eh? Right lads, get this one back to 'is cell. I'll let Lord Beelzebub know we caught 'im. Might want to move that execution up a bit. Oh, and lads, make sure he can't run again."

Aziraphale swallowed back his terror as well as he could, which wasn't all that well given the circumstances. None of the demons moved to unwrap the bolas they had snared him with, leaving him unable to get to his feet and walk under his own power. No, they seemed content to drag him along instead, ignoring his struggles to wrest himself free of their grip. All too soon, he was right back where he'd started at the tiny cell they'd been keeping him in.

"Alright, you heard the boss," the one hauling him along said, tossing him to the ground. "Don't want this pigeon in any shape to scarper again, do we?"

Oh, it hurt, those heavy feet on all sides of him kicking and stomping any available bit of his body they could reach. Aziraphale tried to curl up into a ball but with his legs still wound with the snare, it wasn't like he could get away from them. He bit his lip to keep from crying out, though it didn't do much good for very long. Now with his body as battered as his wings, Aziraphale didn't want to even contemplate moving, let alone the long journey back to Heaven, or even to the battlefield where maybe another angel would find him and get him to safety. He was too breathless to do anything but shudder as he was finally dragged back into the cage and left in a heap on the floor.

How long he stayed there, Aziraphale didn't know. He wanted to give up. He was never getting out of there, he would be put to death for all the angels to see, like so many others he'd witnessed with horror since the start of this awful war.

No. No, he was not going to die like that.

He would probably die, truth be told, but... not like that. Aziraphale lifted his head and put on his second most determined glower (the most determined one hurt too much at the moment).

"Awake in there, pigeon?" a demon guard asked, thwacking his spear against the cage bars so that Aziraphale jumped. The demon snickered and turned his back again.

Aziraphale looked at the guard, then at the door, then the bolas around his legs. He squirmed, struggling and wheezing a bit through the pain, but he finally managed to extricate himself from the snare. He checked to see if the guard had turned to watch or not, but it seemed the demon had deemed him of little concern.

Good.

Clutching one weighted ball in one hand and holding the other two carefully to keep them silent, Aziraphale forced himself to his feet. He ignored the burn of Hell through his boots, tiptoeing as silently as possible to the edge of the cell. The guard still didn't turn. Wielding his weapon, Aziraphale struck the demon in the head hard enough for him to go down with a clatter and a bang.

Aziraphale gasped with relief and dropped his weapon, kneeling to scoop up the keys from his jailer's still form. His breath came ragged but he managed to make his shaking hands work the key into the lock and twist it open, shoving his way out of the prison. Aziraphale snatched the spear from where it had fallen and whirled to gaze down at his demon captor. He raised the weapon, ready to strike.

Then he took a steadying breath, preparing.

Then he bit his lip, regarding the unconscious demon.

Aziraphale sighed and lowered the weapon. No matter what this horrid beast had done, he couldn't very well kill an unarmed enemy, and an unconscious one at that.

"Bother," he grumbled. "Well, I don't expect you'll find the same mercy from your own lot, anyway."

Aziraphale turned to flee but immediately skidded to a halt with a horrible jolt of terror to find his way blocked by another demon.

This one was staring at him, its snake form swaying slightly back and forth. It was massive, immense black coils surely powerful enough to crush Aziraphale and fangs that would kill him much slower than the promised beheading would. Aziraphale sagged, utterly defeated; perhaps if he was whole and hale he would have stood a chance in this fight, but the recent beating had taken what little remained of his strength. He was as good as dead.

The snake didn't move to attack, though. Its head was cocked to the side, reptilian eyes almost puzzled as it regarded Aziraphale, the spear, and the unconscious demon still in front of the cell. Aziraphale wasn't sure what it was waiting for, but he would go down fighting. He clutched the spear—really it wasn't even a threat so much as a prop to keep him on his feet—and waited for the snake demon to make its move.

A forked tongue flicked out as the snake's eyes shifted between Aziraphale and the demon by the cage one more time. Then, the snake lowered back down onto its belly and slithered calmly on its way.

Aziraphale watched it go, perplexed. There was no chance the demon hadn't realized it could knock him down with one good puff of air, or that he was obviously in the middle of escaping. Why was it letting him go?

A puzzle for another time, Aziraphale firmly reminded himself. First, he needed to finish escaping. He would have to be far away by the time his guard woke up with what Aziraphale hoped was a splitting headache.

Eventually he would of course have to wonder some more about that snake demon. But only from the comfort and safety of home. Turning, Aziraphale fled.

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#7. If you're lucky, a bite from a hellhound might kill you right away. If you're unlucky, its venom might turn you insane first. If you're lucky, you might have an angel watching your back. Crowley is lucky. Er... unlucky. Well, lucky.

Teeth.

Teeth... everywhere. Curved teeth, wicked teeth, pointed teeth, teeth that injected fire, teeth that drowned him in waves of agony and screams.

Crowley had lost his sense of reality after the first bite, fangs sinking themselves into his thigh, bringing him to the ground. The growling and howling and snapping like nightmare fodder burned itself into his brain until all he heard other than his own pathetic cries was the snarling of the hellhound, and how could one hellhound have so many teeth anyway?

“Hush now... hush, my dear. I’ve got you.”

He tried to fight, just on principle, but Crowley already knew he was as good as dead. The blade stowed in his boot fell from nerveless fingers before he’d ever landed a single slice. Curse whichever one of his jealous workmates had sicced a HELLHOUND on him—two quid said it was Hastur—not that it mattered because the hellhound didn’t care that they were supposed to be on the same side, it only knew that there was flesh and blood and fear, and Satan how it thrived on all three.

Crowley felt his body literally ripping under the jaws of the hellhound. The worst of it wasn’t the rending of flesh, though, but the venom now working its way through his system. Not the kind that would kill. The kind that would disorient. The kind that would terrify. The kind that would bulldoze its way into his brain and smash it to pieces and leave him in a nightmare world incongruous with reality.

He screamed again.

“Crowley! I’m sorry, I have to drain the wounds, don’t fight me... that’s a good lad, you’re doing splendid. Oh please don’t make me hold you down...”

The attack stopped but the terror and the screaming didn’t. The air was filled with unearthly screeches, discordant voices of ancient monsters carrying dread. Crowley rolled away, head tipping back as he gasped through the searing pain. His vision was blurry and flooded in red. Through the haze, he saw a halo, as blinding as the face of God. Whatever it was saying, Crowley couldn’t decipher as he clapped his hands to his ears and curled in on himself, sobbing. The figure was dark and its eyes were full of fire, not like Hell but like purified molten gold and Crowley couldn’t bear to look. Somewhere close by, a hellhound bayed. Metal rang, the air shimmering like static and electrified will. Another howl. More of that voice with the distorted words.

A flash of lightning, or else a blade, and the hellhound was silenced mid-howl but the sound of it echoed in Crowley’s traumatized mind. It rose and fell in cascading waves in synchronization with the pulsation of the world around him. The ground slithered under his body and tiny devils danced in the wounds left by the hellhound fangs. Crowley watched them, shaking his head over and over to cast free the spell holding his mind, but the venom of a hellhound was not so easily dispelled.

Then the tall, dark figure turned slowly on the spot, rooted to the ground yet spritzing out of focus to appear in front of him in the same space of a breath. Crowley moaned and tried to back away as it loomed over him with terrifying gaze and razor teeth. It spoke. The words were nothing, garbled sounds ever rising in pitch. Then a clawed hand reached towards him and Crowley flung his arms out in a panicked attempt to ward the creature off. Its halo fragmented into a hundred pixels, casting prisms on the ground and the rivers of blood. He reached for the rainbows to find nothing there at all.

“Almost there... Almost, I promise. There’s only the one left. I’m so sorry, I know this hurts, but we’re almost done, Crowley.”

Crowley was weightless, hovering over the ground. The nameless voice—an angelic warrior, oh now he was REALLY dead, it would finish what the hellhound had started—was speaking to him. Curses and threats and taunts, no doubt, though his poisoned mind twisted it into the barest whisper repeating over and over:

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you... I’ve got you.”

A hellhound, he could fight, but an angel he could not. Crowley closed his eyes against the visions of a thousand mirrors breaking and raining their shards down over the earth, and the blank nothingness that lay behind them, an existential facade.

“There. All done, you should be right as rain. Now if you would only be so good as to open your eyes, please, Crowley.”

The whirling of space and time around him slowed to a crawl and then finally stopped altogether. His entire body was one big... throb. Nevertheless, Crowley felt an intense desire to pacify the owner of the voice, and when he finally peeled his eyelids back, he immediately remembered why.

“’Ngel?” he croaked out through a dry mouth, blinking back his confusion to see Aziraphale there. Here. Wherever they were. Crowley looked around, quite certain this was Aziraphale’s new bookshop, but he couldn’t recall popping over for a visit and wasn’t sure how he’d managed to fall asleep there. Satan, why did his body hurt so much?

All other thoughts were pushed away at the sight of Aziraphale very nearly crumpling in relief.

“There you are,” the angel murmured, brushing a hand over Crowley’s forehead before he could be surprised about it. “And the fever’s down. I daresay you’re out of the woods.”

“Out of the- what happened?” Crowley made to sit up, but Aziraphale’s hand fell instantly to his shoulder, urging him back down.

“You had a bit of a run-in with a hellhound, I’m afraid,” the angel told him, face slack with remembered horrors that looked a bit like Crowley felt. “Nasty business.”

“Ngh,” Crowley agreed. “Yeah... okay, yeah, that- that sounds... familiar.” He looked up at Aziraphale in bafflement. “But how did I get here then? Shouldn’t I be dead? There was- something came and killed it, and-”

Oh.

Crowley closed his eyes to hide his embarrassment at the rather obvious fact that Aziraphale was the something that had come and killed it.

“Hellhound venom does some unpleasant things,” Aziraphale pointed out kindly but unnecessarily. “I expect it had you all confused about what was happening.”

“To say the least,” Crowley muttered, remembering snippets of nightmares involving existence itself melting away and how hard he’d tried to fight off his rescuer. “Lucky you were there.”

“Lucky you had a good blade,” Aziraphale countered as he held out Crowley’s stiletto knife. “I hadn’t brought anything. It was the oddest thing, I had such a sudden and urgent thought to go for a stroll through Whitechapel, I scarcely realized it before I was halfway there. And of course I heard that horrible beast from a mile away, didn’t even realize it was you there until I’d killed the wretched thing. Gabriel can’t be too cross over it, after all a hellhound is as bad for us as it is for you. But I was so afraid- but no, you’re going to be right as rain. I had to drain the wounds, you know, and you didn’t like that one bit.”

“Ngh.” Crowley was trying to remember if he had called out to the angel, though he would swear he hadn’t. Nothing to have tickled his friend’s attention, surely. Dangerous business, that, what if some other angel had heard it instead? Besides, the last thing he would have wanted was for Aziraphale to be in harm’s way, though he did forget at times that Aziraphale was quite the formidable warrior.

Well, a mystery for another day.

He realized then that Aziraphale was watching him anxiously; Crowley looked away. “Wot?”

“Are you alright, my dear? Hellhound venom can be... well... disturbing.”

Crowley swallowed, then took a bolstering breath. “Fine,” he airily tried. It fell flat. “Just having a hard time with... you know, what’s real and what’s not and whatnot.”

Aziraphale nodded like he understood, though Crowley hoped he didn’t, not from experience.

“Sorry,” the demon muttered next. “For... you know.” He doubted he’d made it easy on Aziraphale to get him somewhere safe or treat his wounds.

A hand closed over one of his, and Crowley looked up in surprise. Aziraphale’s eyes—not the blinding gold from before, but his own normal blue—were full of warmth and reassurance.

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for. I’m only glad Something led me there in time. Now listen, I’m going to put on some tea and you’re going to stay right there under the blankets until I’m quite satisfied you’re all recovered. No arguments! I daresay it’ll make me feel better, you know.”

Well, damn it all, Crowley couldn’t very well refuse, then.

He would, of course, never admit it under any amount of torture, but it did something good to the demon that Aziraphale would care half as much. Though he made a show of rolling his eyes and sinking back down with a sulk, Crowley saw the warmth warm a little warmer in the angel’s eyes and he knew that of course Aziraphale understood.

He always did.

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#9. Take Me Instead - Crowley finds himself in a tight spot. Aziraphale would do anything to get him out of it, even if it means giving himself up to a group of Satanic cultists who talk about things like "extracting" power far too easily. Part 1 of 3.

PART 1/3

"Angel, erm... I think I might be in... well, you know."

Aziraphale frowned and set his cocoa mug down, clutching the phone tighter. "No, my dear, I don't know. What are you in?"

An exasperated sound from the other end. "Trouble, there I said it, I think I'm in a bit of trouble."

The chair scritched across the floor, shoved backwards as Aziraphale hastily leaped to his feet, cocoa utterly forgotten. "What sort of trouble? Where are you?" he asked, trying not to sound too worried, but not succeeding because he was, as his friend rightly deemed, a "fuss-pot."

Nervous laughter. "Ah... well, that's the funny thing, right? I'm not, uh... well, I'm not sure, if you must know."

"Crowley! No, I don't find that funny at all! What's happened?"

"Somebody summoned a demon, so here I am—wasn't my choice, before you say anything, got yanked out of a perfectly good nap against my will—but there's nobody here."

Aziraphale had a strong feeling he was missing something rather important, brow furrowing even deeper. "If no one is there why don't you just... leave?"

The pause filled him with dread, and the longer it went, the dread-er he got.

"Crowley?"

"I- I can't. Angel, I really need help."

The flippant tone was gone from his voice, leaving a warble of what might have been vulnerability but also rang of concealed pain, and quite a lot of it, and that had Aziraphale gripping the phone so hard it nearly broke.

"Alright, my dear, I'm coming to collect you. I need you to focus and tell me everything so I can find you. What do you see, what do you hear? Anything to help narrow it down."

"Warehouse," the demon grunted. "Can't be sure it's anywhere near Soho, but these summonings usually just grab whatever demon is closest, so unless I'm the only demon in the entire world still topside—not likely, before you panic—I expect this is still London. 'S still dark out. Um... oh, I just heard a train."

Aziraphale gasped. "That'll be the 2:47. I know exactly where you are. Hold on, Crowley, I'm coming!"

He slammed the phone back into its cradle without another word and dashed off into the night, not even stopping to grab a coat or lock the door.

o.O.o

Crowley gritted his teeth from his seat on the dirty floor, clutching his arm tightly against himself. The door of the warehouse slid open with a rusty squeal that set him even more on edge, but it was only Aziraphale who hurried in with a splash.

"Crowley!" he cried out, eyes widening at what was sure to be a bit of an unpleasant picture. "What...?"

"Like I said... demon summoning," Crowley reminded him, gesturing with his limp arm at the unusual decor. A black altar was set up in the middle of the room with various levels of half burned candles, metal bowls containing ingredients he didn't want to consider, and an old book that was probably written on skin or something—wasn't that the usual for these sorts of things? Crowley himself was in a circle chalked out onto the floor with various more signs around the outer edge. He wasn't sure what they meant, but he was fairly clever, and the fact that he wasn't able to use a single lick of demonic power while standing in the circle suggested that they were meant to inhibit his demonic power.

All of that would have meant nothing, as the circle wasn't actually intended to contain him. He could have simply walked out, except for... well, everything else in the room.

Aziraphale splashed through the puddles of standing water, making a beeline towards Crowley, who threw up his hands in a panic.

"Wait, stop!"

The warning wasn't fast enough. Aziraphale skidded to a halt at the border of the circle, but his haste left him splashing the water on the floor in all directions with every footstep. Crowley ducked and covered his head with his arms, meaning the droplets avoided his face but peppered his sleeves. He choked on a tight sob as his already severely burned shirt sizzled all the way down to skin.

Aziraphale gasped, catching on immediately and glancing down at his sodden feet. "Holy water?"

"Someone didn't want me getting out of here," Crowley said through an even tighter jaw. "I- I tried, but..." The foot he'd stepped into the closest puddle with—not realizing it was holy water until it was too late—was burned and mangled all to ruin. The knee he'd immediately fallen down to was a blistered wreck. And the arm he'd splashed into the water to catch himself and roll out of the way with felt like it had practically melted.

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale cried, tears visible in his eyes as he took in the sight of the injuries. The angel took a steadying breath. "Alright, not to worry, we'll figure this out. I can carry you out, my dear, but we'll have a hard time getting you healed up." He stepped into the circle and knelt by Crowley's side, careful not to let any part of his wet clothes touch the demon.

Somewhere behind them, the door slid open with a squeal once again, drawing their attention. This time, it was a human who slipped into the warehouse, followed quickly by five more. Crowley glowered at them; he'd been hoping for a group of dumb kids not realizing what they were playing at, but these folks had more of the "satanic cult" look about them.

"It worked," one of them said hoarsely as he raised, of all things, a water gun. It was pointed at Crowley. And not one of the plant misters he'd tried to intimidate Hastur with, mind you, but a proper water gun that could probably hit him even from that distance. Odds were good it was filled with more holy water and he wasn't going to call that bluff.

Crowley gulped, wishing he could stand.

Never leaving his side, Aziraphale drew himself up. "And who, might I ask, are you? What exactly were your intentions here?"

One of the other cult members frowned. "Who are you?" she asked. "I thought we only summoned one..."

"How are you not burning?" another demanded, raising a water gun of their own and looking at Aziraphale's soaked trousers. "You're not a demon."

"I should say not," Aziraphale sniffed. "Why were you summoning one?"

The leader beckoned another cultish-looking fellow, who held up a pair of silver handcuffs. Even from the distance, Crowley could see the marks that glowed on the metal like fire and he groaned. He didn't know where these people had gotten actually effective tools from, but he didn't like it.

"Why else?" the man asked with a shrug. "They have power."

Not even an original plot. Crowley was almost insulted. "So you think I'm going to be your genie in a bottle, granting your wishes?" he asked with a scoff. He immediately wished he hadn't as five of the six immediately primed their water guns. Aziraphale tried to move in front of him, but he couldn't cover all five angles.

"No," Cult Man said. "Literally, you have power. Power we can extract."

"Oh." Extraction. Okay. Ah... that was more original. Crowley would have preferred to go back to the genie thing. He really, really didn't like the word "extract"...

Nor, it seemed, did Aziraphale. The angel must have had enough, because he reached out one hand and snapped his fingers with determination.

Nothing happened.

"Erm..."

"Angel?" Crowley hissed, eyes drawn once more to the symbols around the circle. They must have worked on more than just demons. Aziraphale's stricken face showed the same realization. "Oh, hell..."

"Whoever you are, get out of the way," Cult Diva snapped as all six of them closed in. "It's the demon we want."

Their smiles were dark and their guns were ready, and Crowley could see his life flashing before his eyes. He didn't know how exactly this "extraction" thing was going to work but he was pretty sure he wasn't going to survive it. And he was already so injured, fighting back wasn't going to work.

"Take me instead."

Crowley gaped at Aziraphale, then bristled in fury. "What are you doing?"

"Told you, we want the demon-"

"If you think a demon has power for you, try an angel," Aziraphale boldly challenged. "Look at him, he's already half dead. Take me instead. Let him live, and I'll go without a fight."

"No!" Crowley shouted, but he could see the considering looks on the Cult Gang's faces. Desperate, he tried to shove Aziraphale away. "He's lying, he's not even an angel, just a human-"

Aziraphale glowed briefly, his inner heavenly light not a miracle so not blocked by the trap they were in. Crowley swore, because now of course there was no denying it.

"Aziraphale, don't."

But with every water gun still trained squarely on him, there was nothing he could do as Aziraphale held out his wrists in invitation for the human to deftly lock the handcuffs around them. The glowing signs flared and Aziraphale bit his lip with a wince, which meant nothing good. Crowley's heart thudded in terror.

The angel turned to offer him a sad smile. "Afraid it's my turn to save you, my dear."

He let himself be pulled away from Crowley, feet scuffing the ground, as the other Cult Jerks kept their guns trained on the demon.

"What about this one?" the Jerk asked.

Cult Man shrugged. "We only have one set of cuffs," he pointed out. "Leave him here. We'll know where to find him when it's time."

"Aziraphale," Crowley whispered.

The angel only gave him an encouraging nod, trying not to look afraid, Crowley could tell, only he could also tell Aziraphale was afraid.

Then the humans pulled him away and Crowley was left on his own.

...TO BE CONTINUED...

Chapter Text

#11. Defiance - The cultists who have kidnapped Aziraphale with the intent to extract his angelic power were originally trying to summon a demon. Unfortunately for them, they succeeded.

Part 2/3

It took five minutes for Crowley to realize when Aziraphale had been dragged out of the circle, he'd deliberately scuffed his feet through the marks that bound Crowley's demonic power, freeing him to turn into his snake form.

It took another five for him to carefully wind through seemingly endless puddles of holy water and collapse in agony on the ground outside.

It took an hour for Crowley to summon the energy to miracle himself a cab and spell the driver so he wouldn't notice what a mess Crowley was. He headed straight for the bookshop, determined to be there when Aziraphale escaped from the puny humans and got back home, fully intending to spew every bit of fury he had at the angel for putting himself in danger like that.

It took a day for him to realize Aziraphale wasn't coming home.

It took a week longer for Crowley to fully heal from his injuries from the holy water, and in the same amount of time, to learn everything he could about who and where this cult was.

It took less than a moment for him to travel back to his flat to collect the Bentley and turn it directly for the compound out in the country where the cult resided.

Crowley pushed the Bentley as fast as he dared, and he dared quite a lot. The Bentley wouldn't mind. Aziraphale's life was on the line. If in fact he was still alive at all, and that thought was enough to leave Crowley a haunted, trembling mess. They'd survived the apocalypse for crying out loud... the angel couldn't be killed now, not by a group of bloody humans.

"Alright," the demon muttered as he pulled to a stop outside the borders of the compound and turned off the car. "Now listen, Bentley, because this is important."

Speaking the plan out loud helped solidify it in his mind, even if it was just him and the empty car. Crowley kept his palm flat on the dashboard while he spoke, willing some of his own demonic power into the chrome-hearted engine. He had no idea if this was going to work, had never tried cursing inanimate objects into doing his bidding before, but it was a sure bet the people inside would be grossly over-prepared for a demonic presence. This was the only plan he had and Aziraphale might not have time for him to come up with a better one.

Without a backwards glance, Crowley prowled up to the front gate, raised a hand, and clenched his fist. Metal shrieked and squealed as it curled like party streamers. He dropped his hands to his sides, storming in with face growing darker and darker as fire dripped from his fingertips to burn in an aisle of malice that followed him straight to the door. Alarms blared, humans shouted, a cacophony of chaos and panic, music to the demon's ears. A human raced across the yard, shooting a net his way. A flick of Crowley's fingers brushed it aside; another flick snapped the human's spine in two. One less soul to be party to whatever had been done to Aziraphale.

The front door opened and more people poured out into the yard as Crowley started to grin, wider and madder and full of demonic rage. His teeth had already shifted to fangs and now he pulled his sunglasses away and let them fall behind him in the burning grass. Wild snake eyes watched the humans cringe back but he never broke stride.

Two of them tried to rush him; Crowley cracked their skulls like eggs and continued on, but now the people were scrambling to get back inside, away from him. He grabbed one by the nape and dragged her back towards him.

"Who- who are you?" she bleated.

Crowley lifted her off her feet so they were eye level. "You sssummoned a demon," he hissed. "Sssso here I am. Where. Issss. The. Angel."

The cultist blabbered out some explanation of an outbuilding behind the main compound, which was all he needed. Crowley regarded the compound shrewdly, lips pursed, then snapped his fingers again. The human flinched in expectation of violence, but nothing immediately seemed to have happened, so she relaxed slightly in his hold—until he turned his attention back towards her. Crowley snarled and squeezed his hand on her neck tighter until it buckled. Dropping her lifeless body, the demon headed straight around the perimeter of the main building towards the back.

Scarlet lights flashed from the alarms, mixing with the fire he still trailed until the sky and his vision were filled with red. If they had killed Aziraphale... if they had taken his friend away forever... if they had a way to do worse than discorporation... Crowley stormed faster as behind him and inside him everything burned.

The few humans guarding the outbuilding scattered at the sight of him so Crowley quickened his pace and ran inside. The second he crossed the threshold he felt his power snuff out, but this was nothing compared to the sight of Aziraphale.

He was alive, praise someone, but an awful sight. Chains wrapped the angel's arms, legs, torso, and throat, lashing him to an enormous upright pentacle in the center of the room. Worse than that was the thing over his face, more of a muzzle than a gag that covered everything from his nose to his chin, preventing his jaw from opening. Worse than that was the glazed, half dead look in his eyes and the way his head simply drooped. Crowley couldn't tell what exactly had been done to the angel; he was half naked by Aziraphale's standards, shirt hanging open but no obvious marks to explain his condition.

Crowley couldn't move, could barely breathe. He'd come to rescue his friend but now he was in so much shock and rage that it paralyzed him, just long enough for the remaining swarm of cultists to rush in the door. Crowley turned, but with his powers bound by the room, his human shaped corporation was no match for the dozens of hands grabbing him and forcing him to his knees.

He struggled, baring his teeth and growling as the leader who'd taken Aziraphale strolled into the room.

"You," Cult Man said with clear surprise. "How did you get away?"

"Oh I'm just full of sssurprissesss," Crowley hissed.

"Hmm. Well, I must say, had I any idea that angels were real and could hold so much power, I would have been going after them from the start. You found this one... how would I find more? I've tried everything I can think of, but there's nothing in any book I've ever read on how to summon an angel."

Crowley scoffed at the man. "You think I'm going to help you get more angels?" Not that he particularly cared about the others, but if any of this became common knowledge, Aziraphale would always be in danger.

A fist connected with his jaw, snapping his head to the side.

Crowley laughed.

"Tell me how you summoned the angel at the warehouse!" Cult Man demanded.

It was on the tip of Crowley's forked tongue to tell the truth—he'd used a frigging cell phone, that was how—but even that much cooperation rankled, so he defiantly spat blood in the man's face instead.

The cultist's expression darkened as he wiped spit and blood from his cheek, then he gestured to the imprisoned angel. "Did you come here to rescue him?" he asked with clear incredulity. "I'd hate to see your trip wasted. Tell me how to summon an angel, or he dies."

"And then you have no angel at all, idiot," Crowley snickered, fangs extending down past his lip now with every bit of growing fury. "No. I'll not be helping you. Not by a long ssshot. Every ssssingle one of you isss going to die, and that'sss a promissssse."

Cult Man regarded him, hesitant for only a second, before shrugging. "Thomas, Adelaide, fetch the holy water."

"You mean the fancy water gunsss?" Crowley asked, unperturbed. "Good luck with finding thosssse. Odd how no one brought one in with them, issssn't it?"

The cultist bristled. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Funny thing, holy water." Crowley's fanged grin stretched wider. "I can't do much about the water itssself, no power over it. The actual gunsss, though, that's nothing." A snap of the fingers was all it had taken. His eyes darkened further. "I turned them invisssible. Sure they'll work on me... if you can find them. Ssssad there won't be time. My backup'sss going to be here any sssecond."

"You're bluffing."

Somewhere outside the building, the sound of an engine was getting closer. Crowley smiled.

"Not this time."

The building shuddered along with the crash, dust raining down on their heads as a car grille appeared through the avalanche of brick. The Bentley plowed straight through, heedless of the humans scrambling to get out of the way. With the crumbling of the wall, the symbols locking down supernatural power were obliterated and Crowley ripped himself away from the restraining hands with feral rage. Humans scattered, some to evade him and some simply in pieces. He saw the leader shoving others out of the way to get out the door himself, but for the moment, Crowley let him go. He had something more important to worry about.

As soon as the room was clear, Crowley raced for Aziraphale and tore the chains away from his slack body, catching the angel in his waiting arms. Aziraphale didn't even wake, moaning softly in unconsciousness as Crowley prised the muzzle off his face.

"Angel," he whispered, the red haze evaporating from his vision to be replaced by worry. "Satan- God- someone, what did they do to you?"

No reply. He had to get his friend back to safety. Crowley lifted his head, smiling a watery smile at the Bentley's idling engine and gave the car a fond pat. "Well done, you," he murmured. "Can't believe that worked. Alright, Bentley... get us home."

With tenderness as powerful as his rage, Crowley lifted the angel and tucked him into the passenger seat. Then he climbed in himself and backed the car out of the building with another small avalanche of brick. Crowley gazed around the compound and pretended he was Hastur. One wave of his hand, just one; fire rose, crackling havoc, and he let it all burn.

Indifferent to the screams behind him, Crowley pointed the Bentley back out to the road.

...TO BE CONTINUED...

Chapter Text

#13. Oxygen Mask - Aziraphale has been rescued but the cult leader isn't going to let them go without a fight. Or at least a car chase, resulting in one death and two near discorporations. Sadly, the ambulance crew who rushes to their rescue doesn't know they've got an angel on their hands. But ho boy they about to.

Part 3/3

Crowley peeled his eyelids up with a groan. His head swam, stomach churning, face sore. The entire world seemed wrong somehow, so he closed his eyes again. Something tickled his cheek, which his foggy mind eventually determined to be his tie, which didn't generally belong anywhere by his cheek. Hence his confusion. His hands were up over his head, which was also bizarre, and it took effort to bring them back down.

Ah... that was because he wasn't bringing them down, he was pulling them up, because he was upside down.

Pleased with himself for having solved the mystery, Crowley once again squinted his eyes open in the hopes of determining why exactly he was upside down.

It all came crashing back when he twisted to one side to see Aziraphale hanging upside down beside him, unconscious and bleeding from a gash on his forehead.

The cult who had kidnapped Aziraphale.

The compound he had rescued the angel from and burned to the ground.

The cult leader, seemingly hyped up on angelic power he'd stolen from Aziraphale during his captivity, coming after them, the car chase through the countryside, the resulting deadly game of Chicken.

"Sorry," Crowley muttered thickly to the car, reaching out to pat its dashboard but aborting the move when it took too much energy. He let his arms flop down—er, up—once again and twisted his head painfully to look out the window in search of the other car.

It was on its side close by, burning. These modern cars, Crowley thought with a sniff. Couldn't hope to keep up with his Bentley. He squinted golden snake eyes in the direction of the flames, barely able to make out the silhouette of a body in the driver's seat. Reaching out with his senses, Crowley was relieved to determine there was no heartbeat. The cult leader was dead. Aziraphale was safe.

Well, maybe. Crowley's eyes were growing heavy but his head lolled in Aziraphale's direction one more time, wishing his friend would wake up, as he'd been unconscious for the entirety of his rescue. There was no knowing yet what exactly had been done to him.

"An-angel," Crowley coughed. No response. He couldn't keep his eyes open any longer, and Crowley sank into the painless black.

The next time he opened his eyes, it was to the sight of flashing blue. Voices, indistinct but getting louder, surrounded him for all sides and he no longer felt disoriented in space. Crowley sat up with a gasp only for a hand to fall on his shoulder.

"Easy, sonny," a voice cautioned him. "You— whoa, those are some contacts you have, gave me a good fright there—you were in a bad wreck, you were. Best not to move too much. Can you tell me your name?"

"Where's-" cough "Aziraphale?"

"Is that the other fellow? Funny name, innit? Got him out too, just you don't worry. We'll have you both loaded up soon, soon's the other ambulance gets here. The other driver didn't make it, I'm afraid."

"Good riddance," Crowley growled, throwing back the blanket that had been covering him. He ignored the protests and the angry questions that followed him as the demon made a beeline for the gurney where Aziraphale was already strapped in and ready for transport. His face was covered by an oxygen mask, which wasn't a good sign but did at least hide some of the horrible bruising left by the muzzle the cultists had had on him.

A medic was hovering over Aziraphale getting some sort of reading with some sort of instrument. Crowley ignored him, shoving his way in and patting Aziraphale's cheek harshly.

"Come on," he muttered. "Wake up, damn you, wake up. Aziraphale, it's Crowley, don't you dare leave me here."

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to-"

"Aziraphale?" Crowley gasped, holding his breath as the angel finally started to shift and moan.

It took him a second too late to realize that, after a week of captivity spent chained and gagged, this was not the way Aziraphale needed to wake up. Crowley's eyes widened in dismay as he quickly yanked at the gurney straps.

"Get that mask off of him!" he shouted to the medic as Aziraphale's eyes snapped open in panic.

The angel immediately began to thrash, choked and garbled sounds coming from behind the oxygen mask. Crowley just managed to rip the strap around his arms away, freeing the angel to claw at the mask covering his face. Though he was awake, Crowley could tell Aziraphale had no idea where he was or what was happening or why he was being held down. The medic was likewise alarmed and baffled, but the second he tried to grab Aziraphale's arm to stop him from pulling the mask off, Crowley could see the angel's panic shift to pure instinct.

In the split second of time they had, Crowley abandoned his task and grabbed the ambulance medic instead, flinging both of them as far away from Aziraphale as they could, and then everything exploded in light.

All around them, medical workers and police officers shouted in shock and fear and probably pain as well. Crowley covered the medic on the ground, burying his own head against the brightness. He'd left his sunglasses at the compound and his demonic eyes were all the more sensitive to the celestial light of an angel enraged. Damn it, he should have gotten that mask off first thing, of course Aziraphale was panicking. Crowley had to bring him back to reality.

"Stay down!" he shouted to the medic over the chaos and the heavenly ringing getting louder and louder and the unearthly wind of Aziraphale's power. The demon clapped his hands over his ears and clambered to his feet, head still ducked against the blinding brightness. Step by step, he inched closer to his friend against the wind.

"Aziraphale!" he yelled. "Angel! Angel, it's me! It's Crowley, you're safe! You're alright, they're not going to hurt you!"

The intensifying ringing wavered, then the light dimmed fractionally.

"C-Crowley?"

The demon's eyes were streaming, even squinted as close to shut as he could and still see what he was doing. Letting go of his ears, Crowley ducked his face into the crook of one arm and reached out blindly with the other.

"Aziraphale! I've got you!"

His hand brushed something solid and Crowley gripped what he was pretty sure was Aziraphale's shoulder. He squeezed gently.

"Angel... I've got you. You're safe, I promise."

"Crowley..."

The ringing stopped, the light dissipating as the wind died down, and then another ragged gasp. Crowley peeled his head up, face feeling raw as though sunburned, but he sagged with relief to see Aziraphale looking back at him with wide, damp eyes. The angel's breath hitched, and Someone damn it, the lingering fear Crowley saw in his face made him wish he hadn't killed so many of those cultists so quickly when they clearly deserved a slower, more painful death. He put that aside for now, though, wrapping himself around the angel in a bracing, grounding hold.

"They... they took..." Aziraphale whispered, burying his head in Crowley's shoulder.

"I know," the demon growled. If nothing else, Aziraphale's show of power was enough to prove they hadn't even come close to draining the angel completely, or else they'd been letting him recover between "extractions". "But you're safe now, I swear it. I killed them, every single one of 'em."

Aziraphale inhaled and for a second Crowley expected a reprimand, but then the angel nodded. "Good," he whispered.

Then, Aziraphale pulled back and looked at the scene around him with a soft cry. "Oh, I- I've hurt them! Crowley, I never meant to-"

"I know," Crowley assured him, snapping his fingers vaguely at the human bystanders. One by one, they all started to shift and climb back to their feet, dazed and foggy but completely unharmed. "You didn't hurt anyone, angel. Just gave them a fright, and I've made them forget all about it. They think it was just the other car they came out here for, and you and I only stopped to see what the trouble was, and now we'll be on our way. Oh, gotta fix Bentley up, too... But that won't take a moment and then I'll have you headed for home."

And then there would have to be conversations. Crowley needed to know what exactly had happened to Aziraphale, whether there was anything Crowley could heal or help. He would have to soundly berate the angel for having traded himself for Crowley to begin with, to insist that Aziraphale never do anything like that again—even though they both knew that either one of them would always do the same, the unspoken Arrangement.

They might be safe, but there was still some healing left to do, and Crowley would spend as long as it took until Azirpahale felt himself again.

That was what friends were for.

Chapter Text

#15. Possession - Crowley isn't himself. So, that's not good.

Please, please no, not like this...

Aziraphale smiled at Crowley, waving the mug of hot chocolate to waft the enticing aroma in his direction. "You're sure I can't tempt you? But you always want some cocoa, are you not feeling well, my dear?"

Crowley grinned and licked his lips. "Alright then, just a small bit. I do love hot chocolate after all."

No, no, no... I'll do anything, anything you want. Please just stop this, I'm begging you.

"Right away," Aziraphale beamed, bustling back into the kitchen to find another mug.

Crowley settled back, watching him go, then snickered softly. "Beg all you want," he muttered under his breath. "It won't save the angel. Nothing will save him. He's going to die, Crowley, and you're going to watch him. You're going to watch your own hands around his throat, choking the life from him. And then when he's too weak to move, when he looks up at you and pleads for you not to kill him..." He felt for the demonic blade still tucked into his boot. His grin widened. "You're going to watch yourself slit his throat."

Please... What do you want? You can have me, you've already GOT me! We can make a deal. I'll come back to Hell, I'll be a proper demon again, I'll do all the tempting and spreading evil that you want, only let Aziraphale go.

"It's too late for that, Crowley. You know what I want. It's this. Now shut up in there. You really don't want to make this worse for him."

No, don't DO THIS!

"Too late. Here he comes. I think we've gone on with this charade long enough, don't you?"

Aziraphale beamed, setting a second steaming mug of cocoa down in front of the demon. "There you are, my dear, exactly the way you like it."

"You know me," Crowley chuckled, picking up the mug and tossing his dark glasses carelessly to the table. He raised the cup to his lips, making a show of blowing on the hot liquid.

"Yes," Aziraphale agreed, taking a sip of his own cocoa and watching the demon. "And you really ought to have thought of that. Forgive me, my dear."

"Hmm?" Crowley took a long draught as Aziraphale's expression turned cool.

"Crowley hates cocoa."

The holy water in the hot chocolate scorched like fire in his throat, diluted enough so as not to kill, but potent enough for the demon to leap to his feet with a screech of rage and agony. "You BASTARD angel-"

Aziraphale was already on his feet, smile gone as he drew an angelic blade he'd had on hand, curse him. He raised the weapon to point at Crowley with not even a tremor of doubt.

"Six thousand years I've known him, did you really think I wouldn't realize you've been wrong for days now?" the angel coolly demanded. "I only needed enough time to be sure. Now, I don't know who you are, but if you've harmed Crowley in any way, I promise you you'll regret it. Get out of him now, peacefully, and we'll let the matter drop. I won't ask nicely a second time."

"Harmed him?" he gargled out, clutching his throat. "I haven't begun to harm him! You should hear your precious demon, weeping in fear, knowing how long I'm going to take killing you!"

"Hastur?" Aziraphale checked, narrowing his eyes. "Is it you in there?"

"Think bigger, you cretin!" He leaned over, hacking and spitting up gobs of blood, wiping it on the back of Crowley's hand, yanking the demon blade free on his way back up.

Aziraphale eyed the blade warily but didn't retreat. His brow furrowed. "...Beelzebub? You've nothing better to do than-"

"Think bigger!" He flung out a hand and the fat, infuriating angel was knocked off his feet into a pile of books that collapsed beneath him. He was gratified to see the shocked expression shifting slowly into utter terror. It seemed the angel was catching on.

"Not...?" Aziraphale whispered, eyes wide as he tried to crawl back on the floor.

Lucifer stormed towards him, grabbing the angel by the throat and hauling him up. He slammed him against the wall until the angel's sword clattered to the ground, then he leaned in with a furious smile. "That's right. I don't care how strong you've convinced yourselves you are, stopping my son from doing his job, but I can promise you you aren't stronger than me."

It wasn't him! It was me, it was all me, I'm the one who told Adam what to do, Aziraphale had nothing to do with-

"Shut up!" Lucifer raged. "Don't worry, Crowley, when I'm done with the angel, there'll be an eternity to settle my score with you."

"It won't change anything," Aziraphale choked out, clutching at the bruising fingers tightening around his throat. "Even if you kill us... you still lost. God was never going to let you win."

"Still the ever faithful servant?" Lucifer sneered, pressing the tip of Crowley's dagger into Aziraphale's cheek. "The angels turned on you, in case you've forgotten. If I left your dead body at their door, they would thank me. What do you say, Crowley, are you ready to kill your only friend?"

"No!" Crowley cried out, his consciousness thrust to the forefront though he was still unable to control his body. "No, no, no, Aziraphale, I'm sorry! I- I can't- I can't stop him!"

"No, but I can." Aziraphale twisted to the side, leaving enough room between them that he was able to land a solid punch straight to Crowley's diaphragm. Taken by surprise, Lucifer gasped for breath and reflexively released the angel. Aziraphale dove for the angelic weapon he had dropped, scooping it up and then leaping on Crowley's back. "I'm sorry, my dear!"

Lucifer and Crowley both screamed in pain as the blade plunged into their shoulder, thrashing in an attempt to throw the angel off of them. Aziraphale clung on, though, starting to recite an exorcism.

"You can't get rid of me without getting rid of him!" Lucifer raged. He twitched, body already trying to reject him from the power of the exorcism. "I'll take him with me to Hell and you'll never see him again! Never!"

Aziraphale didn't answer, only clutched tighter to Crowley and the blade that physically anchored him to the demon. When the line came in the exorcism to call for the removal of demons, he instead simply slipped Lucifer's name into the Latin, freeing Crowley from its power. Lucifer screamed and thrashed and bellowed, but the words were of an ancient magic that had been given to the humans by God Herself and he could no more resist it than he could reverse the Fall. With one last howl, the devil erupted from the body he had taken, a pillar of fire and smog and evil intent, as Aziraphale finished the exorcism and cast him back into Hell with every remaining ounce of power he had.

Then both Aziraphale and Crowley collapsed.

When Aziraphale awoke, he'd been covered with a blanket. He blinked, lifting his head to see Crowley sitting close by on the floor with his knees drawn up to his chest and head drooping dismally on his arms. He'd managed to get a bandage around his shoulder but it was clumsily done and would need attention. Aziraphale sighed and painfully pushed himself up to seated.

Crowley didn't twitch or look his way.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale asked softly. The demon only buried his head deeper into his arms, tensing.

Hesitating, not sure how welcome any touch would be at the moment, Aziraphale scooted closer and set a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Are you... alright? It worked, didn't it? He's gone? I- I'm sorry for stabbing you, I feel perfectly awful about it-"

"No, 'm not alright," Crowley muttered into his arms. "Almost killed you."

Aziraphale nodded, wincing against the soreness of his body. "You didn't, though. Counts for something, doesn't it?"

"Couldn't stop him. You didn't hear him, everything he said he would-" Crowley cut off with a shudder and tilted his head the other direction. "Can't forgive myself..."

"But, my dear boy, you didn't do anything wrong. It was him. It was all him. And I'm fit as a fiddle." He coughed, then amended, "A, ah... rather battered fiddle. Oh my dear, if anyone should be apologizing, it's me. I knew something was wrong, but I couldn't think how to remove one of you but not the other, not until I knew which demon had taken you so I could adjust the exorcism. And I fear he was tormenting you all the while, oh, I'm so sorry, Crowley. It was ever so obvious you'd been possessed-"

"Then you should have killed me!" Crowley snapped, lifting his head at last to meet Aziraphale's gaze with pain in his reptilian eyes. "What if it hadn't worked, huh? Better to kill me and that bastard than to get yourself hurt!"

Aziraphale drew himself up in shock and dismay, gasping. "Well, I never! Better to kill you? And then what? Live out my life knowing I had killed the only friend I ever-" He cut off, swallowing. "Absolutely not, dear boy. As long as I'm around, that'll be a last resort, and I still had a few other resorts to go through. Now then... I don't know about you, but I could use something quite strong to drink. Join me? And I'll have a look at that shoulder? Oh, I truly am sorry for that."

Crowley huffed, but relented, scooting closer. "Don't be, it'll be fine in a day or so. S'pose I could do with a drop. No miracles though, I'll get something from your cabinet." He paused, then looked at Aziraphale. "You really knew all that time that it wasn't me?"

"How long have we been friends? Of course I knew. Really, Crowley, you must give me some amount of credit. Now then, about that wine. Unless... you'd prefer cocoa..."

The demon glowered at him and snapped, "No, angel, I would not."

Aziraphale smiled and took his friend's hand, giving it an apologetic squeeze.

"Well then. Thank heavens for that."

Chapter Text

#17: Blackmail - Another angel has cottoned on to the Arrangement and decides to capitalize on the matter. Aziraphale doesn't dare tell Crowley, but he won't be able to hide everything, like the tension, the radio silence... the blood...

Aziraphale hadn't been himself lately and Crowley didn't like it.

If he didn't know any better, he'd say the angel was avoiding him. He'd declined all of Crowley's suggestions that they meet up for a nice bottle of wine and a chance to complain about their respective Head Offices. He was barely taking calls, always finding a good reason to hurry off the phone with a hint of anxiety. Crowley wasn't hurt, that would mean he had feelings which of course he absolutely did not, not a single one, but if he did have just one feeling it might have been concern.

Something had to be going on. And so, Crowley swiped the best bottle of wine he could find at the store, reminded the owner he'd already paid for it (he hadn't, but he was supposed to do demony things like that), and went straight for the Bookshop.

It was closed, which was always statistically likely, so Crowley headed for the back window and slithered in as a snake, the bottle of wine carefully held in his coils.

Inside, he changed back to his human shaped form and strolled towards the front where Aziraphale could normally be found at a desk or chair with a heavy book.

No angel.

"Oy, Aziraphale!" Crowley shouted, setting the wine down and tossing his dark glasses onto a nearby shelf. "Wine!"

And still no answer, leaving Crowley to frown and prowl around. It could be the angel was just out; it wasn't like they told each other about all of their assignments, but Crowley was starting to feel like he was being left in the dark, and that didn't feel nice. So, when the front door jiggled and opened with a light ring of the bell, he stayed where he was back in the shelves so he could give Aziraphale a proper scare as payment.

The door shut again, then there was a moment of silence, then a long, weary sigh. Crowley frowned, listening to Aziraphale's heavier than normal footsteps cross slowly to the coat rack. He peeked out in time to see the coat slide down off Aziraphale's shoulders, followed by the vest, and then Crowley's snake eyes grew wide with shock and fury.

There were bloody stripes on Aziraphale's back, showing through his shirt. Had he tangled with another demon? Crowley watched Aziraphale reach behind him and gingerly dab at one bloody streak with a soft whimper of pain, and that was enough. The demon stormed from the shelves, making Aziraphale leap around with a squeak.

"Oh, Crowley, it's you," Aziraphale sighed, hand over his heart. "You shouldn't be here."

"What happened to you?" Crowley demanded, ignoring the frankly rude greeting with one of his own. "You're bleeding. Was it a demon?"

"What? No, of course not. Everything's fine. Crowley, please go."

Crowley crossed his arms, fixing his yellow glare on the angel. His forked tongue flicked out, testing the air for hints of sulfur, but what he smelled was even worse. Reeling back, Crowley hissed.

"You smell like Heaven," he said. His jaw clenched. "You smell like you've just been to Heaven, and your back is bleeding." It wasn't hard to connect the dots from there. Crowley's fists tightened. "When I get my hands on Gabriel-"

"It was my own fault!" Aziraphale yelped, more frantic than the situation called for. "I, erm... I made a mistake, and I was justly punished for it. So- so let it go, there's a dear boy, forget you saw anything. Now you really must be leaving. Good day." He stormed towards the back, or really sort of hobbled because no storm moved as slow and painfully as he did.

Crowley followed him, hardly satisfied. "Made enough of a mistake to be flogged?" he hissed. "How? You haven't even had an Assignment in ages!"

"Crowley, please let it go."

"Something's going on," Crowley barreled on. "Since when did we start hiding things from each other?"

They'd reached the back room now, but somewhere at the front of the shop, the bell rang again. The faint tinkling of celestial space followed, an angel in the shop. Aziraphale's eyes grew wider and he shoved Crowley bodily away.

"Go!" he hissed in panic. "Go, go, I'll call you later, please just get out before anyone sees!"

Crowley watched his friend hurry back out to the front, torn. On the one hand, it wouldn't be the first hasty exit he'd made when another angel came to call unexpectedly, of course he shouldn't be found there. His safety and Aziraphale's depended on it. But on the other hand, something was wrong and Crowley wanted—needed—to know what. Frowning, he pulled out his cellular device and opened the video recorder, staying out of sight.

"Ah, Aziraphale!" a cheerful voice rang out, not one Crowley recognized.

"Zaccheus," Aziraphale returned with a distinctly frosty edge. "What do you want?"

"Relax, old boy, only popped in to check on you. That was kind of Gabriel to only give you ten since the others hadn't healed yet."

The others? How many floggings had Aziraphale been getting? Crowley cursed himself for not having pressed the matter sooner.

"Yes, very... kind," Aziraphale stiffly replied. "Now I expect we're through here."

"Ah, well, since you bring it up..."

"Zaccheus..."

Now there was a clear edge of panic that Crowley did not like one bit. He tipped his phone around the door jamb, watching in the screen as a dark-haired angel slowly circled Aziraphale.

"I mean," this Zaccheus angel said, "it's in everyone's best interest for us to keep up this... partnership. Don't you think?"

"I've already taken the fall twice for you now," Aziraphale retorted through gritted teeth. "I did what you asked. I told Gabriel your mistakes were my fault and I took your lashes-"

"For which I'm terribly grateful," the other angel said, beaming. "You were very convincing. I get the impression they rather expect for you to make mistakes, you know, that's why it couldn't have been a better arrangement. And speaking of arrangements, I mean, come now, Aziraphale. Can you really afford not to play along when I need you to? What would happen to your demon then?"

Crowley inhaled sharply as the picture formed a little clearer. So it was blackmail. Aziraphale took this angel's punishments in exchange for not spilling the beans on their partnership?

"You said," Aziraphale spoke up shakily. "You said if I did this, once, you would destroy any evidence. I didn't breathe a word. Zaccheus, please. If you tell Gabriel and he tells Beelzebub, it's not just me who would be in danger, Crowley-"

"Would be demon fodder, yes," Zaccheus beamed. He clapped a hand on Aziraphale's shoulder, not noticing or not caring about the soft whimper it brought as he hit one of the wounds. "So... you do the math... Next time I need you, you're going to be readily available to take the licking, right?"

Crowley saw Aziraphale's shoulders sag and he'd had enough. Turning off the recorder, he kicked the door open with a bang and strode out into the room, brimming with demonic fury.

"Wrong," he snapped, ignoring the terrified yelp from Aziraphale, the stammered insistence that Crowley leave at once what are you doing and focusing instead on a shocked Zaccheus. "You twat. You absolute prick. So that's what's been going on? You found out about our Arrangment and made your own arrangements to have Aziraphale punished for your screw-ups?"

"Zaccheus," Aziraphale cried, holding out his hands. "I didn't tell him, I swear it, I asked him to leave, this isn't what it looks like, please don't tell Gabriel-"

"Oh, he's not going to," Crowley growled, getting in Zaccheus's face. He'd give the other angel this much, Zaccheus didn't back down, but rather smirked.

"I'm not? I have enough evidence to-"

"Evidence that goes nowhere if I kill you right now, makes all the problems go away."

"No!" Aziraphale squeaked, bodily shoving the two apart and standing in front of Zaccheus, pleading eyes gazing up at Crowley. "Don't, Crowley, please, don't kill him."

Crowley sighed. "Y' never let me do anything fun," he grumbled. The demon glowered at a more uncertain looking Zaccheus now and growled, "Fine, but the only reason I'm letting you live is because somehow you've got Aziraphale's protection, in spite of what you did to him! If it were up to me, I'd tear you apart right now. But Aziraphale says no, so it's back to Plan B." The demon smirked and held up his phone. "Ever heard the term 'mutually assured destruction'?"

He clicked the button to play back the recording he'd taken, watching with satisfaction as Zaccheus's face grew crimson and then white, hearing his own voice incriminating himself. Crowley pointed the phone at him and snapped, "So you get the message, there's no way we go down without you going down, too. Now, if I even think you're going to blab anything to anyone, or if I even suspect you've been bothering Aziraphale, I'm going to get very angry." His eyes shifted to full snake, the whites disappearing into gold, skin morphing partway into scales. Crowley stretched slightly taller, looming over the other angel. "And when I'm angry, I tend to forget thingssss," he hissed. "Might even forget he doesssssn't want me to kill you. Underssssstand?"

Zaccheus swallowed, then bobbed his head. Crowley shifted back to normal size and gave him a feral smile.

"Good. Then I suggest you gather whatever 'evidence' you've got, if you've even got any, and send it to Aziraphale."

Again, Zaccheus bobbed his head, then with a glower in Aziraphale's direction, hurried from the bookshop. As soon as the door had shut, Crowley bit his lip, waiting for Aziraphale to tell him off, but when he turned to look, the angel only slumped down into the chair and buried his face in his hands.

"Crowley, I'm so sorry," he muttered into his palms.

Taken aback, Crowley stared. "Er... for what?"

Aziraphale pulled his hands away and looked up at him with sorrow. "I should have told you, but- he said if I even hinted... I think he was scared of you, truth be told, and the risk... it was just too much. If my office ever told yours, I- I don't think they would give you a flogging and send you on your way. I couldn't risk it, Crowley, I'm so sorry. Can you ever forgive me?"

He really meant it, Crowley could tell. The demon regarded Aziraphale, then slowly moved to sink down in front of him. "Got nothing to be sorry for, angel. You were trying to protect me. I'm not angry with you. Wish you'd let me kill him, but I'm not angry. But..." Crowley released a long breath and shook his head. "The whole Arrangement was my idea. The thought of you being the whipping boy for that tosser for the rest of your life, because of me..." He swallowed. "Do you... do you want to keep doing this? Or- I'd understand if..."

Aziraphale smiled and patted Crowley's hand. "I don't regret the Arrangement," he said firmly. "Or our friendship. I don't know how Zaccheus found out, but we'll collect whatever he's got on us, and... well, we'll just be more careful. And thank you, my dear. For making him stop. Truth is, I was starting to feel ill whenever he came to call, not knowing what he would ask for—mostly just menial tasks after... after the first time... filing his paperwork for him and such. But knowing he might ask worse of me, and that I'd have to go along with it for both our sakes..." Aziraphale shuddered. "And I'm so sorry for having been distant, my dear, I just- I thought- if he'd gone back on his word and alerted anyone, if they were just waiting to catch you here..."

Crowley glowered, remembering the note of anxiety Aziraphale had kept trying to conceal. It all made sense now. "You don't have to explain, angel. I get it. How many times did you take his punishment?"

"Just the twice," Aziraphale assured him softly, looking away. "Gabriel didn't even question it. Fifteen the first time, but- but he's right, it was only ten tonight, since I couldn't heal the wounds from the week before."

"How merciful," Crowley spat, standing up with a glower. "That was, by the way, sarcasm, as I can tell some part of you actually believes that tripe. That's not mercy, but there's no sense arguing over it. Right, I assume the lashes are magicked and can't be healed away by me either, but I can at least clean them off and wrap 'em. Get that shirt off, I'll get some hot water going."

"Crowley."

He stopped and turned, waiting as Aziraphale glanced at the floor, then up at him with a small smile.

"Thank you."

Crowley quirked his mouth in an answering smile, then turned to fetch the water. His angel did require some taking care of, but after all Crowley didn't mind.

Chapter Text

#19: Mourning Loved One - What's the second worst thing that can happen to a snake demon? Having to watch his angel die. What's the very worst thing? Watching his angel die over and over and over...

It was just easier as a snake. Easier to avoid eye contact, easier to keep his face from revealing any "emotion" or other such nonsense. Easier to carefully wrap himself in knots around the angel and assure himself that the corporation beneath his coils was alive, whole, and safe.

"I think you could do with some rest," Aziraphale told him again, settling back on the couch with his book. "Why don't you sleep for a while? I've nowhere to be."

The snake currently wrapped around his arm and torso didn't reply, just stuck his snout down into another coil and closed his eyes.

If they both ended up snoozing in a nest of blankets and scales, well that was just fine.

:::earlier:::

Aziraphale was screaming. And bleeding. The demons only laughed and held the Hellfire closer to his skin until it blistered and split. Crowley was screaming too, voice raw with it by now. He knew the angel couldn't withstand the Hellfire much longer, and then the screams silenced and Aziraphale's eyes clouded over, leaving Crowley on his own.

:::earlier:::

Aziraphale reached a trembling hand towards Crowley, dragging himself over the ground and leaving  stream s of blood in his wake. The Hellhound pounced on his back with a vicious snarl, hackles raised and teeth exposed. Crowley shouted for him, but it seemed to be the signal the Hellhound was waiting for and it struck like a viper, fangs burying themselves in Aziraphale's neck so the angel choked and gurgled on a bloody cry before falling still.

:::earlier:::

Heaven had found out about their Arrangement, had learned that Aziraphale had given Crowley the precious holy water. The building housing Heaven and Hell was silent. Aziraphale's lifeless body hung suspended by hooks and chains on the ground floor, a grisly reminder for anyone who walked in the door what happened if the status quo wasn't maintained, a cold, stark reminder that  Gabriel and Beelzebub came from the same stock .

:::earlier:::

Aziraphale was dead.

:::earlier:::

Crowley was the one who got Aziraphale killed.

:::eventually:::

Aziraphale gripped his sword tightly, wishing it was his flaming, angel sword, but any blade should do. He prowled through the dockyards, eyes and ears perked for any sign of his quarry. He would have liked to wait on Crowley for this, truth be told; after all, an echidna was half serpent, maybe a snake demon would have been naturally predisposed to be able to fight her better. But he'd been unreachable and this wasn't something Aziraphale could allow to continue until he got Crowley on the line.

The slithering of scales on rotten wood and desiccated leaves drew the angel's attention. He readjusted his grip on the sword and hurried in the direction of the sound. A derelict old office stood to one side, shuffling noises leading Aziraphale to the doorway. He took a breath, then raised his sword and dashed around the corner, only to stumble to a halt at the sight before him. He'd found his demon friend—strung up by his wrists to dangle over the dirty floor. Crowley's head was hanging limp, glasses gone and eyes closed. The monster he was hunting was sniffing his neck, her lower serpent half teasing its way around Crowley's leg.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale gasped, hardly the battle cry to strike fear into the heart of the echidna. The half-snake, half-woman turned to eye him with arrogance and irritation.

"Who are you?" she asked. "Never mind, pet, you'll jussst have to wait your turn."

"What have you done to him?" the angel demanded, pointing his sword at the creature. "Speak, I command you!"

The echidna sniffed. "I'm not under your command," she retorted. A long, forked tongue slipped past her lips and she licked the many puncture marks dotting Crowley's neck. "Mmm, thissss one is delicioussss. Watch thisss."

Before Aziraphale could stop her, the echidna's jaw unhinged, fangs protruding like something from a horror film, and she sank them deep into Crowley's throat yet again. A second later, the unconscious demon started to twitch and moan, swiftly building up through cries to full-blown howls. Tears streamed down his face but he showed no sign of true consciousness even once his yellow eyes opened.

"Stop!" the angel cried. "Leave him alone, foul beast!"

"Beassst?" the echidna hissed with a short laugh. "Everyone'sss got to eat, after all. Relax, thanksss to my venom, he hasss no idea what'sss happening." She giggled again and licked at the puncture wounds once more, much to Aziraphale's disgust.

His eyes flicked back to the demon, currently sobbing with pain or terror or both. Aziraphale had never seen Crowley in such a state, in all of their years together. Then, the demon whimpered, actually whimpered, and choked out,

"Please, Hastur, no..."

Aziraphale straightened, grip once again tightening as he demanded, "Hastur- he's hallucinating! That's what your venom does?"

"Mm," she agreed contentedly. "Ssshowssss them their mosssst terrible nightmaresss. You've no idea, the tasssste of adrenaline as hissss deepessst fearsss come true before hissss eyessss..."

Crowley's most terrible nightmares? Aziraphale felt the blood drain from his face at the mere thought; as a demon, Crowley would be all too familiar with the worst torments of Hell, and the idea of him reliving a single second he might have spent there or the constant fears of what they could do to him, no, it was simply too much to bear thinking of. With a furious shout, Aziraphale thrust his sword towards the echidna and attacked.

The battle was short-lived and ended with her slain on the floor and Aziraphale rushing to get Crowley down. The demon's hands were bloodless from having been bound so tight, ligature marks already standing out stark against his pale skin as Aziraphale wrested the ropes off of his hands.

"Crowley," he called, patting his friend's cheeks carefully. "Oh please wake up... my poor dear, you're not in Hell! Come back!" Even as he said it, though, Aziraphale knew there was most likely nothing to do but wait until the venom worked its way out of his system.

But not here, in the dirty, dilapidated building on his own. Trying to ignore the sobs and moans that he never wanted to hear coming from Crowley ever again, Aziraphale scooped the demon up in his arms and headed back out into the night.

Crowley had a flat somewhere, Aziraphale knew, but he'd never been to it and wasn't sure exactly how to get to it. In this state, he didn't want to simply leave the demon anywhere; best get him back to the bookshop, then. Hopefully none of the angels would pop down for a report on the affair. That would be a trifle difficult to explain, why a hallucinating demon was laid out on his sofa.

By the time they reached the safety of the bookshop, Crowley's condition was none better. Not sure what else to do, Aziraphale fetched a cool rag and contented himself to mop off the demon's brow. Crowley's eyes were open but faraway, trapped in whatever horrible nightmares of Hell his brain could concoct, and Aziraphale knew he had quite the imagination—a curse, in this instance.

Finally, after far too long, the demon slipped off into a fitful sleep. Even that seemed to be no mercy, as Crowley continued to thrash and cry out, sometimes even calling for Aziraphale—that was the worst, as the angel couldn't imagine what torments he was seeing and of course had no way to save him from it.

Finally, finally, Crowley's eyes peeled open once more, filled with trauma and pain.

"There you are, my dear," Aziraphale said softly, settling himself beside the demon on the couch. "Are you awake?"

For a moment, Crowley stared blankly at him, then gasped like he was taking his first breath and shot up on the couch.

"Angel-" He got no further, throwing his arms around a thoroughly shocked Aziraphale.

"Oh! Um... yes, it's me-"

"Aziraphale... you're alright... you- you're alive... you're alive!"

Well, that wasn't at all the reaction he'd been expecting. Aziraphale patted the demon's back, clearing his throat. "Erm, yes, I'm quite well. You were caught by that awful echidna, do you remember? She was poisoning you, I'm afraid, making you see your worst-"

"You were dead," Crowley blurted out, clinging all the tighter to Aziraphale, nearly wrapping himself completely around the angel. "You were dead, over and over and over, and I couldn't stop it, I- are you alright? Really and truly, you're alright? You're okay? Aziraphale?"

The angel was at a loss for words. But... that echidna... she'd distinctly said it would be Crowley's worst nightmare he'd be experiencing, but surely that had to be Hell? Torments untold? He'd even mentioned Hastur specifically...

"I'm alright," he said slowly. "Whatever you've been seeing, none of it was real. I assumed it would be Hell..."

"Hell, Heaven, everything in between," Crowley choked out. "They kept hurting you- killing you, I thought you were dead. I thought..." He coughed and pulled away, cheeks pink as he wrapped his arms around himself. "Er, anyway, no reason to make a scene. I'll just... I should go..."

"You're in no condition!" Aziraphale immediately protested, still trying to sort out in his mind how his own death could be Crowley's worst nightmare when the demon had literally lived in Hell. A mistake on the echidna's part, perhaps. An exaggeration, no doubt, about Crowley's "worst" nightmare rather than just any old uncomfortable one. Surely.

Either way, he couldn't bear the thought of Crowley being alone right now. "You've been kidnapped and poisoned and I won't hear of you going anywhere until you've had a proper sleep, not the sort she did to you. It's quite safe here. Why don't you curl up and have a little rest? Er, just until you- Crowley, I'm sorry but why are you looking at me like that?"

The demon didn't say a word, just continued to stare at him with fearful, watery eyes. Aziraphale coughed, then suggested,

"You're shivering. I'm going to fetch some more blankets. Make yourself comfortable, my dear, because I won't hear of you leaving until I'm convinced all the negative effects have worn off."

Nodding decisively, Aziraphale stood to go gather some more flannel throws and warm quilts, knowing how cold Crowley could get at times. When he got back to the couch, he was surprised to find a serpent coiled up on the cushions.

"Oh, Crowley..."

"Thought you were dead," the snake repeated, burying his head in his coils. "I- I thought..."

Shaking his head, Aziraphale sat down beside the snake and picked up a book that had been sitting on the table next to it. "Well, I'm still alive and kicking, as you see," he reassured the demon. "No need to fret. Now then, I think I'll just sit here for a while and read my book. Stay, won't you?"

Then he pointedly turned all his attention to the book at hand so as not to embarrass Crowley if the demon needed closer comfort. Sure enough, the snake slowly wound himself around his arm and chest as though just feeling Aziraphale there beneath his scales was the grounding proof he needed that the angel was still there, quite alive and whole. He'd expected Crowley wouldn't want any comments on the matter, so was surprised when a small voice hissed,

"You're not going anywhere...?"

Heavens, that venom must have done more damage than Aziraphale had thought. Crowley rarely made himself so vulnerable, so the angel kept his voice as light as possible. "Not in the slightest. I think you could do with some rest. Why don't you sleep for a while? I've nowhere to be."

Crowley nodded and closed his yellow eyes, burying his head again. It actually was quite comfortable there, laid out on the couch in the nest of blankets with the serpentine coils holding him carefully. Maybe a light snooze wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.

Breathing deeply, Aziraphale settled in, feeling warm in body and heart.

Chapter Text

#21: Hypothermia - The hunters who kidnapped Aziraphale for their twisted little sport didn't manage to kill him themselves, but at this rate it might not matter. He's going to die out here anyway, unless someone finds him first...

Aziraphale watched his breath evaporate into the bleak emptiness of the forest in a puff of condensation. He imagined the breath carrying all the way up to Heaven, maybe even to God's ear Herself, hearing his desperate plea for help. It didn't work like that, of course. For one thing, Heaven wasn't actually up so much as elsewhere, and for another thing, God didn't make a habit of rescuing him from these dreadful scrapes he always seemed to find himself in.

She did, however, seem to have a habit of ensuring Crowley was in the right place at the right time.

Aziraphale hoped and prayed that trend would continue today. Soon. Er, rather immediately in fact.

The angel shivered again, eyelids fluttering. He knew he had to stay awake or he would discorporate for sure... but... he was just so tired... and he was just so cold... His head lolled to the side and the jarring sight of the dead human nudged him back awake. The hunter's expression was frozen into a face of shock, marred by a bullet hole in the center of his forehead. It was so cold that the human's face was already blue, no blood trickling from the wound. Aziraphale felt only a very little bad for having killed the man, but then again not so terribly bad that he wouldn't do it again.

"C-Crowley," Aziraphale chattered, adding his pain-filled voice to the breath carrying his prayers to whoever might hear. "H-h-help... h-help me..."

Though he knew it was useless, Aziraphale tried once again to lift himself off the icy ground. Enormous white wings splayed over the forest floor on either side of him, feathers tipped in frost that might otherwise have been beautiful if he didn't hurt so awfully. One wing curled up slightly at the command of his swiftly numbing muscles; the other was useless. Aziraphale twisted his head to look at that one, the one that stretched through a small trickle of water at the bottom of the gully he was in. The ice had already frozen over the appendage, attaching him to the ground. And he had no strength to pull himself free.

Closing his eyes, Aziraphale willed a miracle to thaw the ice, warm his frozen bones, and wash away all the pain. The metal ring wrapped around his wrist thrummed, preventing him from using the slightest bit of angelic power to help himself. Aziraphale choked on a sharp sob of pain and gave up. The hunters might not have succeeded in their hopes of killing him themselves in this twisted hunt of theirs, but it was going to end him all the same. Frozen and helpless, alone in the middle of the winter woods, and oh gracious this was never how he'd imagined his end.

Aziraphale tried to force his eyes open, but his lashes were already icing over and it took too much work to fight them open. At least, he thought fuzzily, the cold was starting to drift away, replaced with a blessed nothingness.

o.O.o

"Aziraphale!" Crowley bellowed into the evening gloom, shivering violently and cursing everything in sight. Killing the human hunters who had kidnapped Aziraphale for their game had warmed him for a moment, but he was cold-blooded and it was actual torture being out here in sub-freezing temperatures. He couldn't turn back though, not until he'd found the angel.

Drawing a bit of Hellfire from his connection to the Pit, Crowley tried not to shudder at the evil keeping him warm. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted again. "ANGEL! Where are you?"

The hunters had been only too happy to answer his questions once they saw his fangs and his fury; they'd sworn the hunter with first dibs at taking a crack at the angel hadn't come back, which at least meant he hadn't won. They were out here somewhere. Leaves crunched, the frozen forest litter crackling under Crowley's feet as he half-jogged through the woods in growing desperation. It was getting colder by the minute and he knew if Aziraphale had been more or less rendered human, out here without proper protection from the cold, he would never survive the night.

Then he'd be sent to Heaven, and Gabriel wasn't likely to allow him another body, and they'd probably toss him in a jail cell and throw away the key. Did Heaven even have a jail? Well, they'd probably build one for the angel who'd screwed up the Apocalypse. Either way, Crowley had to find him, fast.

The demon's eyes swept over the landscape, watching the colors rapidly turning cooler. A hunting blind was tucked into a little copse of trees packed tight together, traces of heat still inside from where the hunter had been sitting, waiting. So it must not have been too long ago, or the colors would have faded into the rest of the background. Crowley stumbled to a stop and looked wildly around. He was on a ridge. If the hunter had shot Aziraphale from here...

Crowley hurried to the edge to peer over. His eyes widened.

"Angel!"

Aziraphale lay on his back, unmoving, as Crowley scrambled down the embankment to reach his friend. The angel's eyes were closed, but Crowley's reptilian vision showed him the barest hint of warmth still. There was time, he told himself over and over. There was time, he could still save him. The demon splashed to a stop next to the motionless angel, taking in the predicament. The human was very dead, a crossbow at his feet and a pistol missing from an ankle holster. But there were no wounds on Aziraphale. It seemed that the hunter had missed; the angel had not. Good on him.

Nothing else was good, though. Aziraphale's wing was frozen to the ground in the pool of water, the fingers of his outstretched hand a sickly blue-grey of frostbite. His wrist still bore the metal ring that blocked his powers, which Crowley immediately ripped away and crushed into pieces in his furious grip. Carefully, the demon used just enough Hellfire to melt the ice around Aziraphale's wing, sweating with the concentration of not letting a single bit of the flame come near the actual feathers. It was ticklish business but he managed to free the wing (with a good bit of ice still attached, but they could worry about that later).

Without a second of hesitation, Crowley gathered the terrifyingly cold angel up in his arms and flew.

o.O.o

Bitter cold.

Mostly frozen water running over his wing, trapping him in ice.

Chattering teeth, pins and needles in his skin.

Everything fading, confusion...

...nothingness...

Crowley.

Crowley? Aziraphale blinked his eyes blearily open to see the demon hovering over him. He seemed to be saying something, but Aziraphale could only stare blankly. The words washed over him, something about miracles, something about heat. The angel considered reaching out to calm his obviously distressed friend, but his joints felt locked in place. He held still, not even moving when Crowley waved a hand in his direction. Aziraphale wasn't sure what he'd done—wasn't that the demon's way of miracling things?—though some part of his foggy mind told him the wet fabric against his skin had disappeared. His wings were still out though. They were so cold. He should really put them away, the sodden feathers couldn't be a good thing, but Aziraphale was too tired.

Now Crowley was crawling onto the couch with him, wrapping his body around Aziraphale's, which felt like it ought to be improper since Aziraphale had nothing on, but that thought was too much trouble to articulate. The demon's teeth were chattering; the poor dear, he had to be freezing, he got cold so easily, and yet his body was like fire against Aziraphale. It burned, and the angel instinctively tried to pull back with a whimper.

"S-sorry, angel, it's all I've g-got, you g-gotta warm up or you'll d-d-d... you'll d-die."

Hmm, the words were starting to make sense again. Aziraphale didn't move as Crowley pulled a heavy blanket over them, his heart sluggishly pounding in his ears as though the blood was just starting to flow anew. A minute later, he whimpered again as his fingers and toes began to burn in earnest.

"Ang-angel, will you p-please come b-back?" Crowley groaned next to him. His skin felt like it was pulsating against Aziraphale's, a current of something that felt too much like Hell for comfort. Where he made contact with Aziraphale's wings, the slightly charred scent of smoldering feathers filled the cabin.

The hunters' cabin. Yes, there had been hunters. They'd put that horrid bracelet on him, it kept his wings exposed and the rest of him helpless- wait, he'd been in the woods. Aziraphale blinked slowly, looking around again.

"Crow-ley?" he croaked.

The demon froze, then lifted himself off of Aziraphale to regard him. The absence of his warmth made Aziraphale shiver, so Crowley quickly lay back down.

"You with me, angel?" he demanded. "C-can you miracle your wings away yet?"

Oh. Yes, he really ought to do that. They were so cold, putting them back in the ethereal plane would be good, wouldn't it? Or could he just use a miracle to warm them up? Oh... oh, that's what Crowley had been saying when he first woke. Yes, he was cold, he needed to warm himself up- good lord, Crowley was freezing himself to get Aziraphale warm! The angel inhaled sharply as his mind struggled through the hypothermia-induced fogginess.

He had to close his eyes and focus with all his might, but Aziraphale finally felt his wings disappear from the physical plane, and much of his discomfort along with them.

"C-Crowley," he murmured, teeth starting to chatter now as his body seemed to regain feeling, the cold coming back with a vengeance. "S-so... c-c-cold..."

"Good," the demon said. "Good, that m-means it's working..."

"You're f-freezing..."

Crowley snorted and didn't move. "Leave it to you to worry about that," he muttered. "C-can you miracle the rest yet?"

Aziraphale tried, he really did, but he was still hazy and exhausted and after a second he slumped and jerked his head to indicate a negative. "S-sorry," he whispered. "You d-don't have to-"

"S-shut up. Is the H-hellfire too much? K-keeping it low but y-you need heat..."

Aziraphale shook his head. The Hellfire glowing under Crowley's skin did hurt, but so did his hands and feet even without that, burning worse as feeling returned.

But he was alive. The Hellfire and shared body heat did the trick, along with the more ordinary fire Crowley eventually got up to stoke, and the dozens of thick flannel blankets he procured from nowhere, and the hot tea he all but poured down the angel's throat to help warm him from the inside. Gradually the mind-fog disappeared and Aziraphale tiredly brushed the rest of the cold away. Eventually he would want to go home and get out of this awful place.

But for now, he was finally warm, and well taken care of, and Aziraphale closed his eyes to the sight of Crowley settling in beside him to watch him through the night.

Chapter Text

#23: Sleep Deprivation - For the most part, Hell was really very satisfied with Crowley's work (mostly because they didn't look too much into it to realize half of it was being done by an angel and the other half by humans, unaided). But, after all, nowhere in the employee handbook does it say that a demon can take a hundred years off for a nap and get away with it. His punishment is not going to be *pleasant.

*It will in fact be brutal torture.

The pain was more than he could stand, a coursing, biting, stinging, agonizing pain. Crowley slumped forward in the chair he was bound to, wrists tugging desperately at ropes that had been secured by a duke of Hell and therefore weren't going to come loose no matter how much he struggled. Blood dripped from a dozen different cuts across his face, chest, and limbs... he'd lost so much of it already, it was a wonder his body didn't discorporate...

A dagger flashed, taking another slice out of his cheek. Crowley cried out with pain and it was too much, it was all too much, the relentless torment. As the blood flowed, his vision started going grey at the edges, then darker grey, then black... Somewhere in the distance, a nasty voice was saying nasty things, but Crowley lost all sense of it as he dipped at last into blessed, merciful, beautiful unconsciousness.

ZAP!

Crowley heard himself screaming as the electric current tore through every muscle in his body, the heat burning his throat where the collar made contact with skin. Jolted back awake, he straightened in the chair and panted, trying to breathe through the sobs.

"Ah-ah," Hastur said, crouching down in front of Crowley and patting his cheek. "Best stay awake if you don't want that to happen again." He grinned, though, jagged teeth showing that he very much wanted that to happen again.

Crowley trembled as the electric current slowly dissipated, then looked up at his tormentor.

"Come on, fellas," he wheezed plaintively, watching Hastur stand and start to stalk around him, while Ligur lounged nearby with a grin. "I got it, okay? I learned my lesson, we- we don't have to keep doing this-"

"Beelzebub thinks otherwise," Ligur reminded him. "Hastur and I got the whole year off just to keep this up and make sure the lesson sinks in. It's only been... what's it been, Hastur?"

"A week," Hastur replied. The toad on top of his head croaked delightedly. "So get used to pain for a while, Crowley. You got fifty-one more to go."

"Can't- can't we talk about this? I swear I'll do better-"

"A century, Crowley. A century of temptations and spreading evil and potential souls for our side, gone to waste."

Crowley leaned away from the dagger hovering over one of his snake eyes, still shaking. "I already said I was sorry-"

"You're here to do a job, not sleep."

"I told you, I was recovering, my angel nemesis had-"

"You got a boo-boo and decided to have a nice lie-in? For a hundred years? And thought that was going to go over well?" Hastur tsk-ed. "And you claim to be so clever. Well, you had your nice little century long nap, so do you know what you'll be doing for the next century?" Hastur pressed the dagger into Crowley's cheek, letting the snake demon's blood drip down the blade as he flashed his teeth again. "Not sleeping."

"Your new little collar will see to that," Ligur tittered. "Every time you fall asleep..." He punched a fist into his palm. "Zap!"

"For a hundred years." Hastur pulled the dagger away, then plunged it hilt-deep into Crowley's abdomen.

Crowley had spent the first two days trying not to give them any satisfaction, but that had quickly gone out the window under Hastur's skillful hands: he threw his head back and screamed. This, of course, only ignited the bloodlust in Hastur's eyes. The toad croaked again as Hastur withdrew the dagger and then stabbed it in once more several inches away. Crowley choked on blood, feeling the hot liquid dribbling from his mouth. The edges of his vision were going dark again, the pain too much to tolerate even as he frantically tried to stay awake to avoid the jolt of electricity that would be following soon.

He couldn't stop... he was slipping...

...

...

ZAP!

Crowley screamed again and sobbed, writhing in his chair as he rode through yet another wave of the electricity. A year of this?! Hastur wasn't going to get bored and leave him alone, Crowley was really going to spend the entire year tied to this chair in unending torment. They'd already warned him they had pre-filed the paperwork to fast-track his recorporation in case he died, which meant there was no mercy coming. Hot tears slid down Crowley's face, hating that it had only taken a week for them to break him of any pride.

"Let's start again," Hastur beamed. "Ligur, you want a turn?"

Crowley shrank back as much as he could in the chair, but of course he was helpless...

The door to the shack burst in suddenly, blown off its hinges. Crowley had just enough time to see a blinding ring of heavenly light, his befuddled mind whispering "angel", before a concussive whomp knocked him senseless.

...ZAP!

Crowley shrieked as the electric current ran right over the pathways it had just burned through his muscles before he'd had the slightest chance to heal, only multiplying the pain. He writhed and shook, his own body no longer under his control, while somewhere beside him he heard a horrified, frantic voice calling his name. Then he was pitching forward, wrists free of their bonds, straight into something soft and sturdy.

"Crowley, oh Crowley, my poor boy, what in Heaven's name have they done to you? What- what is that thing?"

Hands at his throat, ripping the shock collar off his neck, and Crowley trembled with relief.

"Angel," he whispered hoarsely. Weakly, he smiled up at his savior, meeting Aziraphale's stricken eyes. "Good timing..."

"Why are they hurting you?" the angel cried. "I haven't seen you in... must be a hundred years, at least..." He blanched, then gasped, "You haven't been here that whole time?"

Crowley shook his head in reassurance, rubbing his shredded wrists painfully. "Week," he murmured. "They- they weren't happy with me..." He looked around Aziraphale to see Hastur and Ligur unconscious on the floor. Pity they didn't have a demonic shock collar to wake them, he thought resentfully.

The angel rumbled with displeasure, then quietly offered, "Let me heal you."

He reached for Crowley, but the demon pulled away. "Best not," he said mournfully. "Be hard enough to find a convincing lie for Beelzebub what happened here... an angel bursts in and the one demon who's already down for the count is rescued and healed?"

Aziraphale slumped but nodded, then tensed. "I- I suppose I should... kill them," he said doubtfully. "I came investigating because of all the demonic energy coming from this place..."

As much as the idea genuinely appealed to Crowley, he shook his head with regret. "Can't do that, either," he decided. "Be even more suspicious, wouldn't it? That you killed two dukes but I escaped."

This did bring a conundrum, the more he thought about it. Even if he did "miraculously escape" the angel, he hadn't finished his punishment from Beelzebub. Crowley trembled with the idea of enduring the remainder of the year like this, and another 99 without the ability to sleep. He couldn't do it. But... Crowley's mind began to race as the beginnings of a plan came together. He looked up at Aziraphale and grimly smiled.

o.O.o

Aziraphale tried not to pace, but really his nerves were shot. Crowley had sworn he would come back up as soon as he'd checked in with Beelzebub, but until he did so, the angel had no way of knowing if Crowley's clever tongue was going to be enough this time. It sounded like he'd been in dreadful trouble, now he was walking straight back into Hell? Then again, what else could he do short of running away and being hunted forever? Aziraphale wrung his hands, already toying with the idea of how he might justify to Heaven that he simply had to go and rescue a demon from Hell...

The door opened and Aziraphale spun around, then nearly sagged with relief to see Crowley trudging in, clearly exhausted and still covered in horrible wounds, but still very much alive.

"It worked?" he asked anxiously, hurrying to meet his friend.

Crowley nodded, managing a smile. "Beelzebub bought it," he said with a shrug. "I just said that collar woke me up after you knocked us all out, and that you decided to brutally torture me for information-"

Aziraphale squeaked in dismay, even though he knew of course this had always been part of the plan, and that of course he hadn't actually done so. But, just, the thought...

Ignoring him, Crowley went on, "And I had to use all my wiles to trick you into believing false information, that Hastur and Ligur were considering turning traitor. So of course you spared their lives, not wanting to kill potential future informants."

"And Beelzebub believed that?" Aziraphale couldn't help but repeat incredulously.

Crowley shrugged. "S'not like Hastur or Ligur can dispute it, being unconscious for the whole thing and all. Told them you'd decided to let me go afterward as payment for the 'information', then I brought the dukes down to safety. Saved their miserable lives, I did. Two dukes, and I out-wiled a principality to boot. Beelzebub commuted the rest of my sentence for it."

Aziraphale shook his head, watching the snake demon with pure admiration. "I must say, you have quite the clever mind, my dear. Now then... I understand you can't be sleeping a whole century through again, but mightn't it be prudent to rest for a little while and let your body heal from that horrid Hastur? You... you can stay here at my place, if you like," he added, feeling a touch of heat on his cheeks. He hurried to add, "I mean, no demon is going to think of checking up on you here, especially now that I'm the, er... brutally torturing principality. You might even let me have a look at those wounds now?"

Crowley glanced down and raised a noncommittal shoulder. "Er... yeah, alright," he said. "Not sure I could even get back home, to be honest. So exhausted..."

"Then it's settled," Aziraphale decided decisively. "You make yourself at home, I'm going to put some water on to boil. You're safe here, Crowley."

The demon nodded, a wan smile crossing his face. "Erm... you know..."

He trailed off, but he didn't need to finish. Aziraphale smiled back, then hurried to fetch the water.

You're welcome, he silently replied.

Chapter Text

#25: Disorientation - A witch's spell hits Aziraphale with rapidly progressing amnesia. Crowley enlists Anathema's help, desperate to stop the spell before Aziraphale no longer remembers who Crowley is - or that he's a friend, not an enemy.

"Crowley, I want to help, I just don't know how!"

"You're a witch, aren't you? Do something... witchy!"

Crowley yanked his dark glasses off so that Anathema would get the full benefit of his terrifying snake-ish scowl, forgetting for a second that they had saved the world together and she was altogether unafraid of him.

The witch in question sighed and rubbed her forehead. "We've been over this," she reminded him. "I'm an occultist and most of my 'witchiness' came from a book of someone else's prophecies, which I don't have anymore! And anything I ever learned... Crowley, nothing would have prepared me to deal with this."

She gestured at the "this" she was referring to as Aziraphale wandered up to them with a brilliant smile. He was carrying a frog in his palms, holding it out to them with delight.

"Look at what I found, isn't it wonderful, Crowley?"

"No," Crowley snapped, too anxious to be nice. "Looks too much like Hastur."

"Who's that, my dear?"

Crowley stared at the angel in alarm, then gestured wildly at Anathema. "You see what I mean?" he demanded. "He's forgetting more and more every minute! He didn't know where the bookshop was. He didn't know he had a bookshop!"

Anathema winced. "Oh dear."

"Oh shit, more like! Listen, it was witchcraft that did this to him, it's witchcraft that should be able to fix him. Now are you going to help us or not?"

"Still no luck, then?" Newt asked, poking his head into the kitchen. "I don't suppose there's anything I can do to help?"

"He's not a computer," Crowley grumbled back, more waspish than he'd intended. He growled when Newt ducked his head, running a hand through his hair. "Sorry," he gritted out. "Just..."

Newt nodded his understanding, leaning against the doorframe. The frog in Aziraphale's hands croaked once, making the angel chuckle, before he held it out once again towards Anathema.

"Do you want to hold him?" he asked. "You seem like a lovely young lady. I'm Aziraphale, by the by, terribly sorry, I should have introduced myself right off."

Crowley froze, sharing a horrified look with Anathema. Throat dry, he reached towards the angel and took his arm in a firm grip. "Angel," he said slowly. "You- you remember Anathema."

"Oh, is that her name? Pleasure to meet you, my dear."

Crowley let go and turned his back, trying not to hyperventilate in panic. Aziraphale had known exactly who their witch friend was when they arrived ten minutes ago. Whatever the spell was that was taking the angel's memories, it was only getting worse. If it kept progressing...

"Crowley," Anathema said gently.

"He's going to forget," Crowley whispered, sliding down the wall to sit heavily on the floor. "He's all I've got and he's going to forget..."

"We'll fix this," she said. A rustle of skirts preceded her crouching down in front of him, dark eyes earnest. "I want to help. If we can figure out what spell the witch used on him, maybe- maybe I can undo it."

"And what happens when he doesn't remember we're not enemies like we're supposed to be?" Crowley asked, voice hoarse with fear. His jaw clenched and he scrambled to his feet. "I should go- if he sees me and doesn't know I'm a friend- if I put you two in danger because he attacks me-"

"Crowley!" Anathema hushed, holding out her hands and taking both of his. "He's not going to attack you. Or us. This is Aziraphale we're talking about-"

"This was Aziraphale!" Crowley was on the verge of a full meltdown, he could feel it coming, only it wasn't going to help and he had to do something to help. He could not lose his best friend, not like this, not after everything. He needed to keep his head, he knew it, but-

"Miss, please stand aside."

Crowley's heart clenched as Anathema was firmly guided aside, and then he was face to face with an angel who held not a single trace of recognition in his eyes. His breath caught in his throat as his entire world came crashing down. Aziraphale was gone, and now he was just an angel, and angels did not look on demons with kindness, or mercy, or friendship, or love.

"Hmm," The Angel said, peering at Crowley in open curiosity. "You're a demon, aren't you?"

Crowley swallowed and unconsciously pressed himself as close to the wall as he could. "Aziraphale," he whispered. "You- you have to remember me. I..."

"Aziraphale," The Angel repeated slowly, tasting the name like the sweetest crepe in Paris. "Oh, I do like that. Aziraphale." He smiled briefly, then turned his attention back to the demon at hand. The Angel's eyes narrowed, only for an instant, then widened with the same innocence Crowley had always known in him. "My word, you feel like so much love. I do beg your pardon if I seem forward, only that's not what we were led to expect, you see. You have a good heart, I can feel it. Although it- it seems to be quite broken. I wouldn't presume to overstep my bounds, but- is there anything I can do to help?"

Crowley's mouth opened in shock and then—because he simply couldn't help it—he choked out a strangled, sobbing laugh. The Angel was still Aziraphale after all. Of course he was. A very confused, very disoriented Angel, but his angel nonetheless. That fact was the only bit of encouragement Crowley needed to replenish his stores of hopefulness. They could figure this out, they'd figured out the Apocalypse after all, they just had to-

SMACK!

Crowley and Anathema both jumped as Aziraphale crumpled to the floor before their eyes. They stared in shock, first at the downed angel, then at each other, then at Newt.

"What did you do!?" Crowley practically screeched, leaping towards Newt, who backpedaled frantically. "Did you just knock him out with a dictionary?"

"Cookbook," he replied, holding the book up as evidence and also to keep as a barrier between himself and the furious demon.

"WHY!?"

Newt shrugged, finally ducking behind Anathema to protect him. "Factory reset!" he exclaimed. "Maybe all he needed-"

"Factory- I said he wasn't a computer!"

With another shrug, Newt explained, "I know... that's why I thought it might actually work. It wouldn't, if he was, because, well, it's me-"

"If you hurt him," Crowley seethed, holding up his hand in preparation to snap his fingers and cause something dreadful to happen, but Anathema quickly covered his hand with her own.

"He's an angel, Crowley. A knock over the head isn't going to hurt him- see, look, he's moving."

Still fixing a glower at Newt, Crowley quickly crouched down beside the now stirring angel and took his shoulder.

"Aziraphale?" he called, trying not to grip too tight but needing something to steady himself. "You okay?"

The angel groaned and raised a hand to rub the back of his hand, wincing where the book had hit him. "Oh, my head..." he groaned, peeling his eyes open slowly to see Crowley and the two humans crowding around him. He blinked. "Oh."

"I'm sorry," Newt called down, still hiding behind Anathema. "I only wanted to help."

Aziraphale stared at him, and the glazed look in his eyes was no better at all in Crowley's mind than the blank ones from before. The demon growled, silently swearing a downpour of dead fish to follow Newt for the rest of his days, but that would come later. For now, he kept his attention on Aziraphale.

"Hey... you with us? Angel?"

The glazed, disoriented gaze turned towards him next, and it cost Crowley a tremendous chunk of his heart to see the utter lack of any recognition there, but then Aziraphale blinked and shook his head.

"Terribly sorry," he said, blinking again and then several more times as he rubbed his head. "Goodness, I don't know what came over me."

Crowley swallowed. If it had worked, he would forgive Newt everything. Carefully, he asked, "Do you... remember me?"

Aziraphale laughed. "Heavens, Crowley, I didn't hit my head that hard."

"Oh!" Crowley couldn't help but gasp, sinking back to sit on the floor, relief washing over him like a breath of fresh air. He fished a pair of sunglasses from his inner pocket and plopped them on his face so no one would notice if he happened to be tearing up a little bit. Beside him, Anathema smiled and offered Aziraphale a hand.

"You gave us a scare," she explained. "It seems a witch knocked you with some kind of memory spell. Newt saved you."

"Good thing," Crowley grumbled from the floor. "I'd have killed him otherwise."

"Crowley," Aziraphale murmured disapprovingly, and it was so Aziraphale that Crowley only smiled happily about it. "Memory spell, hmm... I don't recall anything beyond fighting the witch. What did I..." He trailed off and looked back down at Crowley.

The demon, who after all had known him for over six thousand years now, saw every single emotion the angel passed through in the various expressions of his face. It landed eventually on sorrow, which Crowley always hated to see there.

"Oh," Aziraphale breathed, crouching down beside his friend. "Crowley..."

"You're better now," the demon pointed out, shrugging like it was no big deal, like his world hadn't been ending only minutes before. "That's what matters."

He could tell Aziraphale wasn't buying it, but was relieved that the angel didn't push the issue. Not here, not in front of other people, not when Crowley was still feeling shaken and vulnerable. They'd end up talking about it later over a good vintage, no doubt, but for now Crowley was going to just sink into the fact that he still had Aziraphale.

Everything was going to be okay.

Chapter Text

#27: Extreme Weather - While desperately searching Pompeii for even one single survivor he could save, Crowley ends up needing rescuing himself. Fortunately, that angel who always seems to be popping up manages to do just that, but there's still a volcano to outrun.

Crowley hacked and coughed, face covered with his arm in a pointless attempt to protect himself from the ash. Stones rained down all around him; it was the only sound now that most of the screams had gone silent. Tears dripped down Crowley's face, carving lines through the ash that had already settled on him. What was he even doing here? It was useless... any human still in Pompeii was dead by now, or long past his ability to heal. And he wasn't supposed to be healing anyone, anyway. In fact, Crowley didn't know what his assignment here even was, but the crippling horror he felt at the scene around him wouldn't have allowed for him to function anyway.

"Anybody!" Crowley croaked out, desperation driving his sandaled feet a little further into the city. "Hello! Is- is anyone left...?"

One person. One wretched person to save, that was all he asked, but he couldn't stay here much longer himself, not without succumbing to the volcano and discorporating. At this point, it didn't seem like a terrible idea. A huge rock glanced off his shoulder, knocking Crowley off balance so that he tripped into the rapidly growing layer of hot ash coating the streets. Even if fire wasn't likely to do much damage to a demon (did lava count? He'd never tested this and wasn't eager to) it still hurt. Another stone crashed down beside him, so Crowley growled and drew his wings out into the physical plane, hoping to shield his head.

It wasn't the best idea he'd ever had, the hot, cloying ash immediately starting to stick to his feathers. It weighed him down, cumbersome and unwieldy. Crowley tried to stand back up but this time a falling rock did knock him over the head. The demon toppled the rest of the way to the ground, almost totally immersing himself in a hot casing of the volcanic brume.

With a strangled cry, Crowley forced himself up onto one trembling arm and called again,

"H-hello! Anyone, is anyone left alive?"

Shouting made him cough and choke and there was no reply. It was time to go; he was doing no good- er, well, he never did good, but he wasn't any use here. Shuffling around in the ash, Crowley staggered to his feet and tried to point himself out of the city, away from the cruel fires of Vesuvius. He blinked, shielding his eyes, and glanced around. His heart pounded faster; which way was out? Everything was covered in a thick, dark cloud and he had no idea which direction he was pointed now...

Maybe he should just lay down and discorporate there after all, but it was a terrifying prospect to die there alone in the volcano's wrath.

Panic overcame him, making the demon start to hyperventilate, which—given the debris in the air—only made things worse. Crowley sat heavily back down, about to go into a full-blown panic attack when a sudden light permeated the gaseous cloud around him.

"Hello!" a voice shouted. "Is someone there?"

"Over here!" Crowley immediately choked back, forgetting for a second the point had been for him to find someone else to save, not to require rescuing himself. At the moment, he didn't even care, nor did it occur to him that his wings—which he couldn't put away now even if he wanted, thanks to the layer of ash and dust bogging them down—might be a bit of a shock to whoever it was.

But when the light got closer, Crowley nearly sagged with relief to see the someone was the angel Aziraphale. They hadn't crossed paths since that day at Golgotha, but so far all of their meetings had been more or less on friendly terms, or at least neutral ones. So even though now would be the ideal time for Aziraphale to finish him off if he wanted, Crowley didn't think twice before reaching out desperately for the angel.

He saw Aziraphale's eyes widen before he hurried forward to take Crowley's hand and haul him back up to his feet.

"Can you fly?" Aziraphale asked urgently.

Crowley, who could barely move his wings now, shook his head.

Without another word, Aziraphale turned them both in the direction he'd come from, starting to run, still gripping Crowley's hand tightly. As bogged down as Crowley was, he couldn't go quite as fast, gasping raggedly for breath.

"Hurry!" Aziraphale urged over his shoulder. "The flow is about to hit the city!"

Crowley didn't answer, saving his breath for running. He didn't know how long or far they ran, but finally they broke free of the heavy cloud. Ash still drifted down like snowflakes, but Aziraphale didn't stop or let go of his hand until they had outrun even that. Not until they had splashed across a stream and Pompeii was far behind them did the angel slow to a stop, leaning over and panting hard.

Crowley fell to his knees at the stream to greedily gulp the cool water. It mixed with the ash coating his mouth, making him hack and spit out gobs of gunk. Crowley had never felt so miserable.

"Took too long gloating, did you?" Aziraphale wheezed, shooting a glower at the demon.

The implication froze Crowley in his tracks. He stared at Aziraphale, the accusation burning into his heart. "You think- that wasn't me," he gasped. Crowley's frame shuddered as he slowly shook his head and looked back towards the volcano—hidden in the cloud of its own eruption—with pain filled eyes. "There- there were kids in there," he whispered, voice breaking. "I thought I could get them out, but... They're all dead. All of 'em. I- Just get out of here and leave me then, if that's what you think! Stupid angel! I didn't do this!" He crumpled again. "There were kids..."

Aziraphale didn't leave, kneeling down next to him with an expression of sorrow. "I'm sorry, Crowley," he said contritely. "That was foolish of me to assume- I'm sorry, dear boy, please forgive me."

Crowley hung his head and nodded wordlessly. The angel had saved his life, after all, even while assuming the whole thing had been Crowley's doing.

"Oh, your wings are in such a state," Aziraphale fussed then, looking over the normally black feathers that were now streaked grey and white from the ash. "Let me get you cleaned up a bit, alright? Penance for my ugly assumption. And because I don't believe you'd have much luck on your own."

Well, he was right about that. Too exhausted to refuse and wanting nothing more than to be clean, Crowley nodded again.

Permission given, Aziraphale miracled a clean cloth out of nowhere and wet it in the stream. Then he sat behind Crowley and started to gently wipe away the layer of grime. While he did that, Crowley tiredly splashed water over his face and neck, rinsing so much ash away between the two of them that the stream ran cloudy where they were sitting. He finished before Aziraphale did; Crowley closed his eyes and sank into the comfort of having his feathers carefully cleaned, all the way from the tip of his primaries to the joint where the wings met his back and then back down over the other one.

His hurt at Aziraphale's accusation melted away along with the debris on his wings. To Crowley's surprise, the angel didn't stop even once he'd gone through several rags and the feathers were pristine again.

"Close your eyes," Aziraphale warned him, miracling a bucket now and trickling the water over Crowley's head to rinse out his long hair. Somehow the water was soapy and warm as the angel massaged it diligently into Crowley's scalp. It nearly put the demon to sleep, his throat closing up a bit at the gentle touch. He couldn't remember the last time someone had washed his hair. Had anyone ever? He didn't say a word, not trusting himself to speak, as the angel continued his careful ministrations.

"There we are," Aziraphale murmured, tipping one last bucket of warm water through his hair to wash everything away. "Now one last miracle—I doubt anyone on my side will notice, after all there's plenty that needs doing here—and you should feel like a new demon."

With a snap of his fingers, Crowley's ashy, dirty tunic was suddenly clean and shining white. Apparently the angel forgot that Crowley wore black, but it had been nearly white from the ash so he could be forgiven the mistake. Crowley would fix it later. Maybe. At any rate, it left him fully clean and fresh at last. Aziraphale crouched down beside him, a warm hand on Crowley's shoulder and a worried light in his eyes.

"Are you alright?" the angel asked softly. "I imagine this has... not been a good day."

"To say the least," Crowley replied, trying for flippant but sounding more downtrodden than anything. He cleared his throat. "But, uh, I guess I should thank you."

"Nonsense, you would have done the same-" Aziraphale cut off, turning an interesting shade of pink as though he'd said something he shouldn't have and wanted to have not said it.

Crowley wanted to tease him for it, but honestly he was too tired, so he nodded instead with all seriousness. "Yeah. Still," he said, shrugging. "Thanks." It was true, of course, he would have saved the angel if necessary. Crowley hated to be in anyone's debt, so maybe they should just make some sort of standing Arrangement, when the other needed help, they'd give it. Then it wasn't a favor, it was just... what they did. He'd mention it to Aziraphale sometime, see what the angel made of it. An Arrangement could come in really handy, the more he thought about it.

But that, he decided, soaking in the feeling of being clean and safe at last, was a thought for another day.

Chapter Text

#29: Reluctant Bedrest - After finally getting Aziraphale home from the cult that had been keeping him prisoner, Crowley is left to tend to his angel. Aziraphale isn't the best patient when it comes to staying in bed and resting, but Crowley has an ally to help keep an eye on them both. Even if neither of them know it. Part 4 of 3.

PART 4/3

The bookshop watched Dearboy bring Aziraphale inside, fretting with so much fretfulness that the glass panes in the windows were rattling slightly. Neither the snake-eyed demon nor the bookshop's beloved angel seemed to notice, though the Bentley naturally pointed it out at the first opportunity, along with an admonition to calm down and take care of their beloved pair. The Bentley wasn't often the voice of reason—quite the opposite—but this time it was right.

Aziraphale was clearly alive and that was, of course, the main thing. As for what had happened to him, the Bentley couldn't give many details other than how the angel had been restrained when it busted through the wall of the compound to rescue him and Dearboy.

The thought of Aziraphale strung up on some horrid pentagram, muzzled and barely alive, made the bookshop quiver again with rage and alarm. As did the next bit of the story, how the Bentley had been in a terrible wreck on the way home thanks to the cult leader. But, as the Bentley pointed out in exasperation, it was obviously back in tip-top condition, else it wouldn't have made it back to Soho.

This was a good point, so the bookshop tried once again to wrench its attention back to Aziraphale and Dearboy.

The demon was getting Aziraphale up the stairs into his infrequently used bedroom; the bookshop saw Aziraphale shiver, so it cranked the temperature up a few more degrees.

"Easy does it," Dearboy murmured, settling the angel carefully down on the edge of the bed, then squatting down in front of him and taking his hands. "Angel?" he asked in that careful voice that always made the bookshop settle with a creak of content. "What- what do I need to do?"

"Oh, nothing, my dear boy," Aziraphale sighed, looking down at their hands. His face was tight with emotion, though. He would be needing tea, or else something stronger, so the bookshop quickly checked the cupboards to make sure it was well stocked with both. Maybe a bit of that Chateau Greysac it knew Dearboy liked so much, as a thank you for rescuing Aziraphale.

But first, it needed to know what had happened to the angel. The bookshop creaked in impatience, then immediately felt bad when Aziraphale tensed and jerked his head up to check the doorway.

"It's just us," Dearboy reminded him. "Alright?"

"Yes, dear me, so- so silly of me," Aziraphale chuckled weakly. "Afraid I'm a tad bit jumpy..."

"Angel... what- what did they do to you? Are you... are you hurt?"

Aziraphale sighed and closed his eyes. "Just drained," he whispered. There was a moment of silence, then he peeped his eyes back open to see Dearboy watching him. He took a shuddering breath then managed to choke out, "They took my power, Crowley... they just... took it."

"How?" Dearboy asked carefully. "You still had plenty after the accident, so... they didn't take all of it?"

"I don't know how it worked," Aziraphale admitted with a shudder. "But it was horrible. The pentagram was part of it, and- and there was a spell they used. I've never heard it before. But when they did it, it was like... I felt it, all my power, you know it's usually just a normal part of you, all through your being?"

Dearboy nodded, face unreadable.

"Well, I felt it... moving. Gathering. It was like the spell was pulling it all in on itself into a little ball, and that- that- oh that horrible-" He couldn't go on, a shaky hand releasing Dearboy's to rub over his jaw. He must have been talking about the muzzle that Bentley had mentioned. Tears danced in the angel's eyes as he whispered, "I felt it in my chest, then moving up into my throat, and oh Crowley it burned so badly... this corporation doesn't usually have so much concentrated power in one place, you know. And once it was all in my throat, they- they had some sort of syringe, I don't know what sort or where they got it, but- they... they just took it."

He closed his eyes and seemed to crumple a bit. Dearboy was off his haunches in a second, sitting on the bed beside him with his arms wrapping the angel in comfort and protection.

"You're safe now, though," Dearboy murmured, taking the words right out of the bookshop's, er... mouth. "And they're all dead. And they didn't get all of it, so that's something."

"They did, though," Aziraphale sighed as he leaned into the safe hold. "Or it seemed like it. Only once a day, and by the next morning it was all replenished but every time it left me more and more exhausted. If you hadn't come, Crowley, I- I think they intended to keep going forever. I'm an angel, I- I'll never run out of power, so long as I can recharge somewhat. I didn't know if you'd managed to escape that warehouse or how you would ever find me even if you did, I thought I was never getting out of-"

"Hey, hey!" Dearboy spoke up as Aziraphale grew more and more upset. "I did get out and I did find you. And you're home with your books and your- oh, look, see there's even a box of chocolates right here on the bedside table."

Aziraphale rubbed at his eyes but took the offered box with a watery chuckle. "That's very kind of you."

You're welcome, the bookshop thought, already knowing Dearboy would accept the credit for having brought the chocolates, but that was alright.

"And I'll fetch us a bottle of wine to go with it," Dearboy said. "While I'm doing that, you are going to put on some pyjamas and get in the bed, and you're not leaving it until you're fully recovered. No, don't argue," he said louder as Aziraphale opened his mouth to do exactly that. "You need rest, and lots of it."

"But- the store..."

"Is closed, just the way you like it," Dearboy pointed out.

"But-"

"No buts. You, pyjamas. I'll be back in a tick."

Dearboy fixed Aziraphale with another bossy glower then slithered down the stairs to the kitchenette. The bookshop had two glasses waiting on the counter, along with a corkscrew and the book Aziraphale had been reading before dashing out after Dearboy in such a hurry. As an afterthought, it piled another quilt on the chair beside all of this so the demon could take it back upstairs with him. Aziraphale tended to nest when he was upset, so the more blankets, the better.

With all of this accomplished, now feeling a little better for knowing the story and a little angrier for the same reason, the bookshop settled in to watch over its occupants.

O\[]/O

Aziraphale was a notoriously awful patient, always thinking he was quite ready to be back up on his feet long before he actually was. Dearboy was standing guard—er, keeping him company—but he did love to sleep, that demon. And so the bookshop would have to stand guard as well over the next few days, thwarting the angel on several occasions when he tried to sneak out of bed. The bookshop watched as, nearly a week from being rescued, Aziraphale stole a glance at Dearboy in a chair nearby that was tilted back against the wall on two legs. The demon was snoring soundly, as Aziraphale was supposed to be doing but of course wasn't. The angel pushed the blankets back and crept out of the bed. He started to tiptoe for the door as quietly as he could, which of course wasn't very quiet when the bookstore made sure to creak as loud as it possibly could with each and every footstep.

When that still didn't wake the demon, the bookshop waited until Aziraphale's hand was on the door before it knocked the chair out from under Dearboy with a crash.

Dearboy leaped to his feet with a shout, brandishing the wineglass he'd been holding like a sword until he saw Aziraphale with his hand sheepishly on the doorknob.

"Oi!" Dearboy grumbled. "Where are you going? Back in bed! If you fall down the stairs again-"

"Oh, Crowley, but I simply must mind the store. What if someone thinks I've gone on holiday for being closed so long, and tries to break in and steal my books?"

"No one is going to steal your books, angel," Crowley said with a groan.

It was quite true. A few people had been giving the store quizzical looks over the last few days, some even going to press their faces to the door. That had been great fun, as the Bentley projected some of Dearboy's demonic energy into the store in the form of monstrous specters right in front of the glass. So far two of the peepers had fainted, much to the bookshop and Bentley's glee.

"Besides, I..." Aziraphale broke off and looked away.

Dearboy frowned. "You what?"

"I just... I don't want to be trapped in the same room for much longer," he admitted softly. "Can't we at least go downstairs? Open a window? There's plenty of couches, you know, and after all I've been resting for days. Please, Crowley, I just don't want to feel like... like a prisoner in my own home."

Drat. The bookshop couldn't very well argue with that. Neither, obviously, could Dearboy, who slumped a bit with obvious guilt.

"Yeah, alright then."

But he still hovered right beside Aziraphale as the angel took step by painstaking step down to the main level, at the ready to catch him if need be. The shop had cleared off the comfiest couch of the books that had been piled on it, draping an extra throw blanket over the back for extra coziness.

"Shall I... erm... fetch some cocoa?" Dearboy offered as he got the angel settled onto the couch.

Aziraphale smiled up at him gratefully. "That would be lovely. Crowley," he added as the demon turned to go.

Dearboy turned back, waiting expectantly.

Aziraphale's smile softened, eyes growing warm. "Thank you," he said. "For rescuing me."

"That's the Arrangement," Dearboy said with a shrug. "Though if you're really starting to feel better, I'm going to shout at you for taking my place to begin with."

"Oh," Aziraphale coughed and leaned back on the couch with a rather larger than necessary wince. "I'm not feeling that much better."

"Hmm." The demon fixed a suspicious glower on him, but then hurried on to the kitchenette to fetch the cocoa.

At least Aziraphale's admission that he really wasn't all that better yet was cause enough for Dearboy to continue showering him with care and healing. It did the bookshop's heart good to see its favorite two beings on the couch, cupping steaming mugs for Aziraphale to drink and Dearboy to pretend to drink even though they both knew he didn't actually like it half as much as wine. To see the demon piling blanket after blanket on Aziraphale when the angel dozed off without meaning to, still more worn out than he wanted to admit. To watch Dearboy leap to defend him from imagined captors when a particularly bad nightmare woke him up.

To see the unspoken devotion the two had for each other, and to know that long after the bookshop was able to watch over its angel, Aziraphale would still be in good hands.

Chapter Text

#31: Whipped - In ages past, Aziraphale could be punished for mistakes and disobedience by a flogging. If the angels can't get to him now, well, there's still other ways to get the message across.

There were people in Crowley's bedroom.

Thunder crashed outside the window as he jolted upright in bed, instinctively preparing to use any and all means necessary to fight off the intruders surrounding him. Of course it didn't get him far. His brain hadn't even fully caught up with what was going on when he was seized and dragged out of the bed, both arms wrenched behind him and held fast. Angels. Crowley hissed angrily and struggled, but he was held on either side.

"What the heaven is this about?" he demanded, digging his heels in as he was forced over to another silent angel.

Lightning shot a sharp spotlight on the intruders, illuminating half of Gabriel's face in a cold, grim light.

Crowley might have laughed at how ludicrously melodramatic it all was, except there was a very real possibility he was going to die like this, and that put a bit of a damper on things.

"Let me go," he snapped, twisting to either side to see that his captors were Michael and Uriel. Fantastic. Why did archangels always have to travel in packs? "Thought you lot were going to leave us alone!"

The door of the bedroom squeaked open and another angel strode in. Crowley groaned. Sandalphon; he hated that ass almost as much as he hated Gabriel. Maybe even more.

"Aziraphale's not here," Sandalphon reported.

Crowley silently thanked his stars for that, though he couldn't tell if Gabriel was pleased or disappointed. His face showed nothing, purple eyes boring into Crowley with too much triumph for comfort.

"The demon it is, then," Gabriel replied with a shrug. "Get him down."

"What? Wait! I didn't do anything-"

"This isn't about you. Uriel, get his shirt off. Michael, tie him up."

Crowley found himself flung to the floor. Desperately, he tried to clamber back up so he'd have the slightest prayer of defending himself, but Michael kicked him back down onto his back. Uriel was on top of him in a flash, silver blade slicing through his shirt as Michael dragged his wrists up and lashed them swiftly together.

"Get off!" Crowley spat, shivering at the cold steel of Uriel's sword skimming his bare chest to finish cutting his shirt away. "What is this, anyway?"

"Don't trouble your mind over it," Gabriel suggested with a shrug. "Aziraphale will understand, that's all that matters."

"You slimy bastards, if you touch him-"

"Alright, get him up. Hmm, the bedpost, I think. That should do."

Crowley tried to fling the angels off of him, spitting curses and insults to no avail as the two archangels silently dragged him the short ways across the floor back to the four-poster bed, his back to the room. He was yanked to his knees and his bound hands were further lashed high on one of the posts, the rope wound around the base of the round finial to keep his arms lifted. Crowley didn't want to panic, but this seemed like the ideal time for it, if ever there was one.

"What do you want?" he demanded again, twisting to look behind him. Crowley's mouth went dry as Sandalphon answered his question with a silently smirking unwinding of a whip. "Wait," he couldn't help but gasp out, yanking frantically at his bonds. "Wait, wait, wait, this isn't right, I didn't do-"

"We never had to gag Aziraphale," Gabriel informed him, eyebrows raised. "At least he knew how to take his lickings like an angel."

Crowley hissed at the casual admission—not that he hadn't already known his friend had been on the receiving end of Heaven's punishments before, but the utter unconcern from the archangel made it so much worse.

"If you think you can torture me into giving him up-"

"We don't," Gabriel interrupted with a shrug. "Told you, this isn't about you. Alright, Sandalphon. Start with, mmm... twenty."

"No, wait!"

The crack of the whip echoed with the booming thunder outside the window, masking Crowley's gasp of pain. He immediately bit his lip, determined not to make a sound. He was a demon, he'd had plenty of pain in his time, he wouldn't give them the satisfaction. The cold air slithered over the split skin on his back, making Crowley shudder.

Another crack, the whip scoring a second slice; he felt blood welling up and trickling down his bare skin.

Another. It was a heavenly weapon, and Satan it hurt far worse than the whips of Hell because of it, cruelly efficient against demons. Each crack of the whip tore out another piece of him, his back bowing and arching reflexively against the pure agony. It might as well have been holy water except he wouldn't even die. Fangs extended in Crowley's mouth as he bit through his lip in an attempt to silence the cries Sandalphon was urging to his throat.

Crack! Crowley choked out a garbled sob and mindlessly tried to get up from his knees, as though he could fight all four of them even if he got his hands free. Someone, either Michael or Uriel, kicked his legs back out from under him so that he collapsed down, suspended by the rope around his wrists. Another crack of the whip finally tore a sharp cry away from him.

"What do you want?" he pleaded.

"Nothing from you," Gabriel replied uncaringly. "You're doing just fine. Sandalphon."

CRACK! The whip struck him over and over, criss-crossing his back as Crowley gave up trying to stay quiet. For the first time since the averted Apocalypse, Crowley wanted to discorporate, even though it would mean returning to Hell, but at least it would give him a reprieve. He lost count of how many lashes they'd given him already, body shaking and sweating when Sandalphon finally fell still.

Crowley's eyes were squeezed tightly shut, tears dripping down the side of his face to fall on the carpet. He hung by his wrists, in too much pain to straighten back up. When something leaned down next to him, the demon instinctively flinched.

"A few more?" Sandalphon asked hopefully from behind him, drawing an unbidden whimper.

"Hmm. Best not," Gabriel decided, hand pulling Crowley's head back by his hair to look him over. "I don't know if he could take any more without discorporating. Not much of a message if it goes to Beelzebub instead of Aziraphale. Right, we'll leave him here, let Aziraphale find him like this."

With one final crack of thunder, all four of them were gone. Crowley released a breathy sob, pulling weakly at the ropes. His back felt like it had been dunked in holy water, blood dotting the carpet. He couldn't get free, couldn't heal the wounds, couldn't do anything but slump on his knees and bury his face into the blankets in front of him to muffle his scream.

o.O.o

There was probably a perfectly good reason why Aziraphale couldn't get in touch with Crowley, but he just had a Feeling. He'd ignored the Feeling all night, knowing how much his demon friend loved to sleep, but by mid-afternoon, Crowley still wasn't answering his phone, and everything in Aziraphale screamed that he had to get over to the flat. Now. He'd made it in record time, knocking on Crowley's door and waiting, hoping even now that the door would open to reveal a grouchy, sleepy-eyed demon demanding what was so important.

"Crowley, I'm coming in," Aziraphale called, and then immediately did so. No one came to greet him as he slipped into the flat and shut the door behind him, no answering call from further in. Aziraphale swallowed back a surge of completely unreasonable fear. For goodness sakes, Crowley was probably fine.

Letting himself in to the bedroom at the back, Aziraphale stumbled to a petrified halt. The angel felt his heart stop. Crowley was not fine.

"C-Crowley?" Aziraphale whispered hoarsely, staring at the scene in front of him without comprehending. No, this... this was all wrong... Aziraphale raised shaking hands, unconsciously rubbing at his wrists. He knew this scene. But it wasn't supposed to be Crowley there, kneeling with wrists bound to a post, back flayed open by the cruel strokes of a whip.

It was supposed to be him.

Crying aloud, Aziraphale stumbled forward, falling beside his demon friend and taking Crowley's chin gently in hand to lift his head from the bed. "Crowley? Crowley! Oh, please... please don't do this... please, no..."

Crowley's eyes were closed but his lips moved in wordless muttering at the sound of Aziraphale's voice. The angel nearly sobbed with relief, just to know that Crowley was alive, but oh... oh, in so much pain...

"Hold on, my dear," Aziraphale found himself murmuring, whispering reassurances over and over with more confidence than he felt, as he jumped back up and tried to pull the rope off of Crowley's wrists. The demon's hands were swollen and blue from lack of circulation, deep bruises already forming where he had been bound so tight. Aziraphale couldn't undo the knots, finally cursing with a cry and snapping the ropes away with a small miracle.

Crowley pitched to the side, forcing Aziraphale to lean down quickly and catch him, cradling the tortured demon close.

"Crowley, open your eyes, please," he begged. "I'm so sorry... I should have been here- Crowley, my dear, please... It was Gabriel, wasn't it. Gabriel a-and Sandalphon, I'd know his work anywhere..." Aziraphale's breath hitched as he felt blood seeping through his own clothes where Crowley was pulled in against him. His own back twinged with the terrible memories, golden scars that would never fade.

"An-gel?" Crowley rasped, clouded eyes opening halfway. His face contorted into a grimace of pain as Aziraphale whispered soothing shushes. "Th' wanted t'send you a message..."

"Yes, I see their message," Aziraphale replied, controlling his fury with effort. "Those cowards..." He took a bolstering breath. There would be time to deal with his outrage later, but for now Crowley needed his help. "I'm going to fix you up. Wait right there, my dear, I'll just fetch some water and towels."

He hurried towards the bathroom, running the tap until the water came out hot and steaming, gathering some supplies. Aziraphale found a bucket under the sink and filled it with the hot water, then carried his bundle back to the bedroom. Crowley was barely holding himself up, hands clenched in the blanket on the bed as he leaned his head against the side of the mattress. Aziraphale could see him trembling from there. He could only imagine how much worse the heavenly weapon would have hurt a demon, even worse than it had been for him.

"Alright, I'm going to wash everything," he warned Crowley, kneeling behind the demon with the water and some soft rags. "I'm afraid this isn't going to be pleasant."

"Jus' do it," Crowley muttered into the blankets. "'M fine."

There was nothing else for it. Aziraphale dipped the rag in the hot water and carefully started to clean away the blood, some still freely flowing and some already crusted and dried to Crowley's skin. Each time the rag touched one of the slices, Crowley flinched and made a muffled sound of agony, which hurt Aziraphale even worse than his own punishments had. He murmured soft apologies and whispered reassurances as he worked, which seemed to soothe the demon ever so slightly. By the time he was done, Crowley was shaking like a leaf and Aziraphale felt nearly sick.

"Alright, I'm going to put some bandages on," he said. "Just a little bit more, dear boy, and then you can rest. You're doing splendid, my dear, and I'm nearly done, alright?"

Crowley nodded into the blankets that couldn't quite muffle the ragged, hitching breaths. Aziraphale worked as quickly as he could, finally tucking in the ends of the bandage to hold it in place.

"There we are, all finished. Do you think you can stand? You'd be more comfortable in the bed than on the floor."

Again, Crowley nodded, slowly raising his head and unclenching his hands from the blankets.

It was a heart-wrenching process to get him to his feet, seeing the agony every movement caused, but Aziraphale managed to maneuver the demon around to the side of the bed so he could sink down onto it. The angel guided him back onto his side and carefully pulled the blanket over him in comfort and protection.

"There we go," Aziraphale whispered. He cast about, seeing a chair along one wall, which he hastened to drag over so he could sit beside the bed and take Crowley's hand in both of his own. "My dear boy... how- how can I ever say how sorry I am?"

"This wasn't you."

"It was because of me, though. They wanted me to see... they wanted me to know it was punishment, and since they couldn't hurt me, they- they hurt you instead, the same way they used to-" He broke off and dipped his head in sorrow. Aziraphale was no idiot. This had been staged with clear intention, every detail as close as the archangels could come to mirroring Aziraphale's punishments of old, letting him know in no uncertain terms that even if his days of working for them were over, their ability to punish him was not.

The hand in his squeezed lightly and he looked up to see Crowley's earnest gold eyes watching him.

"I'm glad," Crowley whispered hoarsely.

"Sorry?"

"I'm glad it was me. They'll never hurt you again, angel. Never on my watch." And he glowered with such ferocity that Aziraphale felt his heart melt, a watery smile crossing his lips.

"Oh, you wily serpent," he murmured, squeezing Crowley's hands with soft affection. "You needn't worry about me, worry about you-"

"I spend every day worrying about you, why stop now?" Crowley waited until Aziraphale met his gaze, then said, "We're stronger together. You know it's true. Doesn't matter what they do to me, we're not gonna let them make us think we made the wrong choice. We did the right thing. You know it, angel, I know you do."

"Of course I do," Aziraphale instantly replied, drawing up straighter. "No, I- I don't think that was ever my concern. It feels right, you and me, on our own side. With the humans."

"With the humans. Look, they got me this time, no mistake. Next time, I'll be ready."

"We'll be ready."

Crowley managed a small smile, then his eyes fluttered closed. "Just need to rest..."

Shifting in his seat to find a more comfortable position without letting go of Crowley's hand, Aziraphale nodded. "Rest then, my dear. I'll be right here. I'm not going anywhere."

Gabriel might have thought he could use Crowley to threaten or frighten Aziraphale, but now more than ever the angel knew in his heart that this... this was what he was meant to do.

And this was where he was meant to be.