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Flames flickered in the quiet bookshop, warming the parts their light touched, casting the rest into deeper darkness. A bottle of wine rolled across the floor, into the shadows, as Crowley scrambled after it. Still on his knees, Crowley sat up, tipping his head back and the bottle up, pouring the last precious drops into his waiting mouth. When he was satisfied it was truly empty he cast it aside.
All around the tiny fires danced, mocking him. Tempting him. Once it had been a nightmare, the idea of the bookshop in flames. A memory that haunted those waking moments when it all felt a little too idyllic to trust. There was an odd sense of pride in being right. For a while it was vengeance. If nothing could last forever, let Aziraphale gaze on the ashes of when he pretended to be human. Pretended not to be like the rest of them. Now the flames were borne of an intoxicated hope.
All around the candles burned, probably too many, but what did that matter, as long as the right ones were in place.
Wine bottles scattered like skittles when he finally pulled away the rug, revealing the hidden marks. He staggered around placing the candles, uncaring of the wax that dropped over his hands and the floor. Eventually there was nothing more to do than get on with it.
When a face finally appeared, he swore. He'd aimed for God herself, prepared to instead end up talking to the Metatron or Aziraphale. He hadn't prepared for Michael. Especially not a pale, wide eyed Michael.
“Crowley, what is this?” She hissed, eyes darting around.
“‘s jusht wonderin’ if the offer t’ unfall still stands.”
“No, Crowley, you can't!” Michael loomed closer, voice dropping. “He can't get his hands on you.”
Ice trailed down Crowley’s spine and he questioned his decision to do this drunk.
“What do you mean?” He asked, voice clearer.
“I don't know what's wrong with him, but no one here can stop him. We've been looking for you, but it's hard without him finding you first.”
Between purging the alcohol from his body and the wild look in Michael's eyes, Crowley began to fear the worst. “What has he done? Aziraphale—”
“Hello Michael, having a nice little chat?” Michael's head whipped round at the voice, gaping like a fish, trying to find words.
Crowley's questions were, for once, crushed behind his clenched teeth. He knew that voice. Knew what it sounded like begging, refusing, full of joy and love. He didn't know this hard, cruel voice, but there was no denying who it was.
Above him, Michael's floating head sputtered trying to form excuses before being yanked away. Then there he was, Aziraphale, a satisfied grin, showing too many teeth, spreading across his face.
“Hello Crowley. To what do we owe the pleasure?”
Crowley met his eyes, and didn't recognise them. Still the same beautiful shifting shade, with nothing of his angel behind them. Every instinct told him to run.
“Wrong number,” he said, trying for anger and falling short. Heading for the edge of the circle, ready to snuff the nearest candle, but before he could the flames flared, a ring of fire surrounding him.
Aziraphale tutted. “Trying to run off so soon? You wound me, Crowley.”
Tears stung at Crowley's eyes and his stomach lurched, whether from the fire or the wrongness of Aziraphale's voice, he wasn't sure.
“A little bird told me you've been reconsidering my offer. Are you ready to give me what I want? You always did enjoy that, didn't you?”
“Please,” Crowley said, hanging his head, not even sure what he was begging for.
“That'll do.”
Crowley saw Aziraphale’s smirk in the seconds before the pain hit. He fell to his knees, the burning in his chest unbearable, as he clawed at his burning scalp, pressure building across his shoulders. In interminable seconds, it was over and white feathers cascaded around him as his wings burst free.