Chapter Text
This was far from the first time Crowley had been called down to Hell for doing good deeds.
But he'd become quite a master, over six thousand years, at slipping out of their punishments.
There was a Hell of an incentive.
It had been four centuries since the last time, but unfortunately, demons didn't suffer from memory loss like humans did. He could remember every moment in crystal-clear detail.
Things weren't looking much better this time. Just the fact he was down in the dungeons, rather than Beelzebub's office, made it clear his sentence had already been decided. The laudanum slowly working its way out of his system would be no excuse. His guilt was indisputable.
Crowley didn't bother trying to escape. Deep red sigils glowed faintly on the stone walls, blocking access to his miracles. There was nothing to do but wait. Where would he go, anyway? He'd never see Aziraphale again, because wherever Crowley went, Hell would come, and like Heaven was he letting them anywhere near Aziraphale.
He settled on the icy stone floor, back against the wall. Nothing for it but to wait, and take what they gave him.
Just like he could do nothing but Fall.
"I assume you know why you're here," Beelzebub said, shoving the cell door open. Hastur and Ligur followed close behind, Hastur with a wicked smile on his face.
"Can't say I do," Crowley said, aiming for casual but failing dismally. He crossed one leg over the other and tipped his head back against the wall. The coolness almost soothed his burgeoning headache.
"Cut the bullshit, Crowley," Beelzebub snapped. "I'm a busy demon. I have other places to be."
"Well, if you insist on letting me off-" Crowley began pushing to his feet.
"You did at good deed." Beelzebub spat the words as if they were poison. "Saving that girl's life and giving her the money was bad enough-" Well, at least they didn't know about Aziraphale. He was safe. "-but depriving Hell of a soul? Setting her on a path towards the Light?"
"She would have anyway."
"Graverobbing is a sin. Suicide is a sin. You should have let her die." Beelzebub shook their head. "You've deprived us of a soul to torture. Hastur and Ligur here were looking forward to having a fresh soul to play with."
"I'm sure another one'll come along soon. You know what humans are like." Crowley's hand tightened around his knee. There was no point arguing, trying to justify himself with the laudanum. He was a fool to have ever thought it would work. All there was left was to hope that they'd get on with it.
"In payment of your debt, and to help you remember your purpose on Earth, you'll be under Hastur and Ligur's care for a bit." They strolled off, shutting the cell door behind them with a, "Have fun!"
Hastur and Ligur didn't waste a second. Hastur snapped his fingers, and black chains sprung out of the ceiling, snaking their way around Crowley's wrists and hauling him to his feet.
"Look, guys," Crowley started. He didn't get to finish; Hastur slapped him across the face. Breaths he didn't need to take grew louder, the back of his neck prickling as Ligur circled him. Taking stock of their canvas.
Then Hastur buried a dagger in his gut.
"Fucking ow!" Crowley yelled, automatically attempting to curl in on himself. He was prevented by the chains on his wrists, and ended up bending over just enough to drip blood all over the floor. Ligur grabbed his shoulders, pulling Crowley upright as Hastur grabbed the dagger's handle and began to twist it in deeper.
It was a good thing Crowley didn't actually need any of those organs.
That was one of the many perks of being a demon. It's very hard to kill someone who doesn't actually need any of their organs. Nor to eat, drink or sleep. Or even be in one piece. (Being hung, drawn and quartered sounded like a lot more fun than it actually was. It did not sound fun at all.)
However, there were many downsides to being a demon. The pain from contact with anything holy. The constant emptyness in his soul where her love had been. Also, the punishments for being in breach of the Infernal Code. (Crowley had pointed out they were demons, rebelling was literally in their job description - section 4, paragraph 17 - and he had been temporarily reassigned to the Department of Torture Method Development.)
Point was, Crowley was no stranger to Hell's torture. This was far from his first rodeo - or his last.
This was nothing.
Hastur shoved the dagger in deeper.
Another downside of being a demon: he could feel the pain in every cell it touched. None of them having the decency to die off, or whatever it was that happened to humans to send them numb. He would feel it every step of the way.
The tip of the dagger poked out the other side of his body. Blood trickled down Crowley's back.
"This is what happens when you disobey Hell," Hastur hissed, leaning in close. He twisted the dagger, still farther, until it was buried to the hilt.
Hastur had never been entirely clear on how human bodies worked. Not even Crowley was, and he'd spent almost 6000 years on Earth longer than any other demon. Unfortunately, their corporations in Hell weren't bound by the laws of humanity.
And so when Hastur shoved the dagger right through, until his hand, still clasped around the gory dagger handle, poked out the hole in Crowley's back, Crowley wasn't lucky enough to discorporate. Only hang there, panting wetly, with Hastur's arm through his gut.
Hastur yanked the dagger back out; Crowley struggled to contain the whine that escaped him. Hastur chuckled.
"So weak, Crowley, even after all this time." He began wiping Crowley's blood off on his coat. It was a fashion statement in Hell; Crowley avoided it because when it dried it made the fabric go stiff. And that made it hard to walk.
"Why don't you let me shove a dagger in you, then?" Crowley grunted.
Hastur abandoned the dagger, and made his way over to a black trolley that miraculously appeared in the cell. It was close enough that Crowley could clearly see the shining silver implements lined up on a tray on top of it.
Nothing they hadn't done to him before.
Hastur dug around in the bottom of the trolley for a moment, then withdrew a whip.
The cat o'nine tails.
Each tail tipped in a sharp, gleaming black claw, smaller barbs threaded through the ropes.
Then Hastur pulled out a second one, and handed it to Ligur.
Hastur grinned for a brief moment, before stepping behind Crowley, out of his field of view.
Crowley had a moment to tense up, fruitlessly brace himself, before Hastur let the whip fly.
A streak of fire down his back. A scream he couldn't stop. A second's break. Pain again.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
At some point, the pain moved down to his legs. He sagged in his chains, the pain of all his weight being on his wrists overshadowed by the agony of trying to stand on his ravaged legs.
And still, Hastur and Ligur kept going. Unimpeded by mortal troubles such as tiredness. Certainly not lacking creativity, or the love of seeing someone else in pain.
Crowley had long since screamed himself hoarse, reduced down to tiny, wet grunts, face wet from tears that had run out, when they finally stopped. He did not let himself feel relief at this respite. He could not feel relief until he had escaped from Hell, curled up in his flat and slept for ten years straight. But it was not over yet.
A pair of hands seized his shoulders; Crowley flinched forwards as it reignited the agony of being whipped right down to bone. A moment later, something cool and soothing pressed to his shoulderblades.
Crowley braced himself.
It had been a while since he'd been careless enough to be caught doing a "good deed" without proper justification. (They hadn't believed Crowley when he'd said that Hamlet would increase evil by over 6666%, through the hundreds of thousands of students forced to slog through it at school. On hour four of Crowley's presentation, Religion, Honour and Revenge in William Shakespeare's Hamlet, he'd been evicted from Beelzebub's office. It was shame, really; he'd spent hours on that presentation, and even longer on the Corruption one. If that was because Aziraphale had assisted, and several late nights with alcohol were involved, well, no one needed to know but Crowley. And Aziraphale. Certainly not Hell.)
But that meant Hell had had plenty of time to develop new methods of torture. (Or adopt them from humans as they developed them.)
Colder and colder, burning into him. Black spots appeared in his vision. Deeper and deeper. And then-
Crowley's wings burst into the room.
"Fuck," he gasped.
Hastur stroked a finger along Crowley's marginal coverts. Crowley resisted the urge to shiver. His back ached.
"Such lovely wings, Crowley," he mused. "So well cared for."
"Be a shame if something were to happen to them," Ligur laughed.
Hastur's hand tightened around a feather. Crowley braced himself.
"It's such a shame humans don't have wings," he said. "All these centuries spent hurting each other... with their imaginations, they'd have come up with hundreds of different torture methods."
Crowley braced himself harder.
"The most sensitive part of any demon," Hastur continued. "Their weakest point. Directly connected to their true form, yet able to manifest in the mortal plane and be hurt by mortal means."
"Don't tell me you bastards haven't figured out metaphysical torture yet."
"Don't worry, Crowley. We've got plenty of tricks up our sleeve. Your punishment-"
He yanked Crowley's feather out.
Over the sound of Crowley's yell, Hastur continued, "-won't be ending anytime soon."
"Great," Crowley said through gritted teeth, once he'd regained some semblance of control over his body. "Really wonderful."
"I can't be bothered to rip all these out," Hastur said, consideringly.
"You'll forgive me if I refrain from being relieved," Crowley said.
Hastur snorted.
A loud crack gave Crowley a split second's warning before Hastur's whip hit his wings.
Spikes caught on feather, flesh and bone, ripping through Crowley's wings like paper. Deep scratches scored into his bones. Feathers torn out by the roots. Gashes pouring blood.
His wings flared on instinct, half-caught in the curved claws of the whip, slamming into Hastur and Ligur.
And then Ligur seized a wing, holding it still while Hastur rammed in hook after hook summoned from the ceiling, a neat row of them along the top of his wing, suspending it, unfolded and exposed, from the ceiling.
And when they whipped him again, his wings still tried to escape, tearing holes as he thrashed against the hooks and the whips.
He thought of Morag, all the way up in Heaven. Watching over Elspeth, seeing her thrive. Meeting her at the Gates of Light.
It was worth it, he told himself. For him, it would end.
And he certainly deserved it more.
They left him alone, eventually.
There was no light in the cell, but Crowley was a demon, so such things didn't stop him.
He could see the pools of blood on the floor, streaked and running down the stone walls. Ragged feathers and pieces of flesh scattered on the floor. The trolley was gone.
His body burned, but it was nothing. He could take it. And so he hung there, suspended in the emptyness, until they returned for the next round.
The cell door swung open.
Crowley forced himself to stand, lifting his head to face Hastur and Ligur.
Except it wasn't Hastur and Ligur.
Aziraphale was dressed in a pure white robe, glowing faintly. A beacon of hope. Flaming sword in his right hand.
"Aziraphale!" Crowley gasped, body relaxing without him ever telling it to. The relief was immediately replaced by a spark of fear. "What the Heaven are you doing here?"
"What does it look like I'm doing?" Aziraphale huffed. "Rescuing you, of course."
"What?" Crowley flinched back as Aziraphale reached for him; Aziraphale paused to let him collect himself, then grabbed Crowley's wrist, inspecting the shackles.
"My dear," said Aziraphale softly. "You didn't think I'd really leave you here, did you?"
"We're in the deepest pits of Hell," said Crowley. "One of the most secure places- you're an angel. You can't risk yourself like this for me."
"I think you'll find I can." Aziraphale snapped his fingers, and the chains disappeared. Crowley collapsed forwards into Aziraphale's arms.
"You shouldn't have, angel," Crowley whispered. "I'm not worth what they'll do if they catch you."
"You are to me."
Crowley clutched Aziraphale's shoulder, pulling him closer. Closed his eyes, for a moment, resting his forehead against Aziraphale's shoulder.
White hot pain shot through his chest.
Crowley staggered back, one hand still clasping Aziraphale's shoulder.
Aziraphale's sword was speared straight through his heart.
Crowley collapsed to his knees. Aziraphale stood above him, concern stark on his face, but made no move to help. The agony spread. The holy fire consumed him.
"Angel..." Crowley whispered, and then the world went black.
Crowley hung in the same position as before; chained, hooks spreading out his wings.
His chest was unmarred, except for dried trickles of blood.
So. It wasn't real.
Of course it wasn't. Crowley was a fool to ever believe Aziraphale would come for him. He was demon. Aziraphale was an angel - in every sense of the word. He couldn't save Crowley even if he wanted to.
The cell door opened.
Crowley hoped for Hastur and Ligur.
It was Aziraphale.
He was precisely the same as before: white robe, glowing brightly, wielding the sword.
"Crowley!" Aziraphale said, hurrying over. He stood close, same as before, inspecting Crowley's chains before snapping his fingers to release them.
Crowley took care to collapse back onto the floor, instead of onto Aziraphale, heedless of how it sent spikes of pain through his back as his wings hit the ground.
"You need to go, angel."
"Crowley," Aziraphale said, stepping closer. He stopped when Crowley bared his teeth. "Stop being silly. We need to go."
Crowley laughed. "You're not even here, angel. What does it matter?"
Aziraphale came in close, kneeling in front of him. Crowley attempted to shuffle backwards, but was stopped by the cold wall behind him.
Aziraphale took Crowley's hand, so, so tenderly. "I'm here, Crowley," he said softly. "I promise. I've come to rescue you."
Crowley snorted. He pushed Aziraphale's hand away. "You expect me to believe that?"
"You always come for me," Aziraphale said. "I can always trust you to save me. Why won't you do the same?"
"You're not real, angel." Crowley paused, swallowed. "You're not real," he repeated, fighting the tears in his eyes. "You're just some figment of my imagination. Or Hastur and Ligur's latest torture method." Aziraphale's expression cracked. "I wish you could come for me," Crowley continued. "But you can't, angel. You just can't."
"Oh, Crowley." Aziraphale took his hand again, pulling Crowley over. For a brief moment, hope flared in his chest.
Then Aziraphale buried his sword in it.
He tried to ignore it, when Aziraphale's fluffy white head popped into the cell again.
Closed his eyes, focused on the burning pain rather than Aziraphale's hands skating over his body, checking for damage, support him as he was released from the shackles.
Speaking softly, comforting him like no one else have had.
Crowley could almost believe it.
"Are you there, my dear?" Aziraphale asked. His hand cupped Crowley's cheek.
Aziraphale was the one who wasn't here.
Crowley squeezed his eyes tightly shut.
Aziraphale sighed quietly, then scooped Crowley up into his arms, miraculously avoiding the worst of Crowley's injuries.
Crowley lay limp. He didn't let himself register that Aziraphale was carryinging him in his arms.
It wasn't real.
Aziraphale hadn't saved him.
The hallway was silent, which wasn't right. The dungeons of Hell were always filled with a cacophony of noise: screams, whimpers, whip cracks, sobs.
You name it, Hell's got it.
Aziraphale was infinitely gentle with him. They passed through Hell easily, up the escalator and into the entrance hall.
"You're safe," Aziraphale said, brushing a chunk of blood-encrusted hair away from Crowley's forehead. "You're out, Crowley. You're free."
Crowley ignored him.
He couldn't ignore the pain of the sword piercing his chest.
"I'm here," he would say. "I've come for you."
And he kept coming.
Over and over again.
He would always come to rescue Crowley.
He stopped feeling the pain, after a while.
Just one more wound to add to the collection.
He was used to pain, after all this time.
It was no longer fresh; his body had adapted. This pain was a constant, and so it barely registered.
And Aziraphale continued to kill him.
"Will you please just stop," Crowley whispered, as Aziraphale burst into his cell once again. "Please."
"I won't leave you," said Aziraphale, like he had said so many times before.
And yet here Crowley was, and here Aziraphale wasn't. Because Aziraphale didn't know what Hell was like, what a "performance review" was, never questioned when Crowley just said that they were really, really in-depth, and that Crowley would probably see him in a few weeks if he was lucky. Crowley had worked hard for Aziraphale to never know, to never see Crowley like that, like he should be pitied, like he'd be better off an angel.
And so Aziraphale would never rescue him, because he would find out about this over Crowley's dead body.
His chest ached. Which was stupid, because it was about the only part of him that was unharmed.
"Will you just stop," Crowley snarled. He would have sprayed the floor with spit, talking so harshly, except his mouth was bone-dry.
And Aziraphale looked so sad, and it was Crowley's fault, except it wasn't real and it was that shithead Hastur, but what is Real, anyway? He looked like Aziraphale and talked like Aziraphake and acted like Aziraphale...
If it walks like a duck and swims like a duck-
"Crowley," Aziraphale said, extending his hands, but Crowley jerked backwards, away from his hands.
"Please," he repeated. "I know what I did, okay?" His voice rose gradually higher. "I shouldn't have saved that girl! I should have corrupted her!"
Aziraphale stood frozen, on pause.
"Just stop," he said again. "At least stop using him, please." His voice cracked.
Between one blink and the next, Aziraphale was gone.
"He lasted longer than expected," Hastur mused, staring at the unconscious, bloody mess that was the demon Crowley.
"He's a demon," Ligur said. "Forged in fire and pain, the manual says. It's about time he acted like it."
Hastur grunted. "Wish I knew who it was he saw."
"Demons aren't supposed to care for anyone," Ligur reminded him. "It'd be a funny old world if demons went around caring for things." He paused. "Maybe he saw a snake?"
Hastur shrugged. He stalked a slow circle around Crowley's body, admiring the wounds.
"I think this lesson will be quite effective," he decided, and snapped his fingers. Crowley's body vanished, leaving only empty chains and copious amounts of blood in the cell.