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Watching his cracked halo shimmer in the Archangel Michael’s hands as Uriel takes down her words in the Book of Life, Crowley continues to wonder if he hasn’t made a very stupid, very terrible mistake. But Aziraphale had clutched his hands there in the bookshop and begged him to come —
Angel, they’re just going to start that end of the world business all over again.
Of course they are! That’s why I need you! Please, I can’t stop them without you, please —
and what was he supposed to do?
“Demon Crowley, once angel of the Second Choir, we restore to you full status as a member of Heaven’s armies, with all privileges and duties pertaining thereto —”
He shuts his eyes, trying to still the trembling of his limbs as he kneels in the great atrium of Heaven, wondering if it will hurt, to be so altered — wondering if he’ll even know, afterward, what they’ve done to him.
“— and we bind you to the Supreme Archangel’s service.”
“Wait, what?” Aziraphale says, but it’s too late. The repaired halo drops over Crowley’s head and tightens around his neck, searing light into his very essence. He’s dimly aware that he’s falling to the ground, convulsing, the fires of Hell flaming out of him in one last desperate effort before Grace smothers them black and dead. He can’t breathe. He can't see. Somewhere, over the ringing in his ears, he can hear Aziraphale screaming his name.
“— can’t very well give a former demon free rein —”
“— powers judiciously restrained and placed under —”
“— responsible for his behavior —”
“You said he would be my assistant!” Aziraphale shouts, furious in a way Crowley’s never heard. “Not — not — not my bloody slave!”
“M’all right, angel,” he rasps. It’s mostly a lie; he feels scoured empty from the inside, bound and burdened in a way even Hell never dared, and he’s not sure what’s left of the him he once knew — but he’s alive and he remembers that he loves Aziraphale. Enough to work with for now.