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Aziraphale had discovered a small collection of spells and rituals that he felt fairly sure he could weave together to create a single complicated process in order to free Crowley. The day after the kitchen revelations Crowley read over Aziraphale’s notes, and while he found he didn’t really understand all of the technicalities, Aziraphale had been quite insistent on his knowledge of and consent for what they were intending to undertake.
“Angel?”
Aziraphale looked up from the books still covering his desk, “yes?”
“This,” he held up a page of notes, “reads like a wedding ceremony.”
“Ah, yes, I was aware of that. It was the closest I could find for a more permanent version of the binding spell we’re already using. I’m afraid it’s extremely permanent, though I am aware of instances where it’s been used as a marriage rite, so I understand if you’re not comfortable with it, I’m sure we could omit-”
“Aziraphale, Angel, I’m not concerned about it. I was only teasing you.”
“I am being serious, I’m not aware of any way to break it. There are stories that murder can disolve it but,” he trailed off.
Crowley grinned at him. “Nowhere else I’d rather be for eternity, than by your side. Could do without the muder though.”
Aziraphale couldn’t help smiling back, “I’m sure that can be arranged.”
Once Crowley agreed to the ritual Anathema called the rest of their tiny coven. Aziraphale stayed anxious about the whole thing, constantly asking if he was sure he wanted to go through with it, despite the potential consequences. While he had been concerned with gaining Crowley’s consent with the pseudo marriage rites, he was even more afraid that Crowley would die when they attempted to cut the bonds of the other magics, or that they would unravel his self and shatter his sanity. Crowley stayed firm on his decision. Any chance to be free of the curses layered under his skin, he would take it, all else be damned.
The coven convened at the end of the September, gathering in the cottage on a Friday afternoon, early autumn sun stretching long through the windows.
“They’re a bit of an eccentric bunch,” Anathema warned him as she let them all in.
A vibrant woman with curly red hair came first, both arms wrapped tightly around one of Newt’s as she chattered away. She paused to look him up and down before brightly introducing herself as Tracy, “and you needn’t worry about calling me madam,” before dragging Newt toward the kitchen. Following her was a woman stacked down with books who introduced herself as Anathema’s mother, yet failed to give her actual name. Last was a woman with wild, dark hair and a commanding bearing. She stopped short when she met his eyes, neither of them needing any introduction to know who the other was.
"Why didn't you tell me you were working with one of Lucifer’s?" The question was directed over his shoulder at Anathema, but Agnes held his gaze the whole time.
"He’s not one of Lucifer’s, he’s Crowley. He’s one of us," Anathema said slowly.
Agnes stepped closer and laid her hands on his shoulders, her unflinching gaze growing unnerving. "Well it's been quite some time, hasn't it, little snake?" She tilted her head slightly to her right. " Fallen star will be thy bane ," she quoted carefully. "What was it, in the end?"
In his mind’s eye, Crowley could see the blend of red and gold lights falling across her table, blurred together by the rain. "I owed Lucifer a debt," he responded tightly. He hadn't been prepared to discuss this with anyone. He still wasn't.
"Ah yes," she patted his shoulders and began to move away, following the others deeper into the little house. "We all must pay our debts eventually, be they in money or blood." She paused in the doorway of the kitchen, "I do hope you've been careful not to make a deal for your soul, Mr. Crowley. Breaking curses is difficult work, breaking a contract is nigh impossible."
Anathema grimaced and mouthed ‘sorry’ at him before stepping into the kitchen herself. Aziraphale stepped closer to his side, hand light on his elbow.
“I see Agnes has been keeping her own secrets, as usual,” he said softly. “She has quite the, ah, personality.”
Crowley attempted to muffle his snort of laughter. “She certainly does. I remember her being a fortune teller before I was stabbed. All…” he gestured vaguely, “running in the same seedy circles. Or maybe the circles overlapped. I don’t know, that part is gone.”
Aziraphale nodded along but he looked as though he was somewhere else. “Crowley,” his voice was low but serious, “I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise.”
Crowley gave him a small, soft smile before bumping their shoulders together. “Come on, they’ll be waiting on us, and getting impatient, I bet.”
They moved toward the kitchen, crossing the threshold together. No going back.