Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Crowley snapped awake, fighting off the dream, just as the sun rose. He could still taste the salt and smoke, still see the black candles, the silver sigils laid into the floor, still hear the careful chanting – the words changed over the centuries, but the intent always remained the same.

Someone had started the process of summoning a demon last night, and Crowley was the unlucky target.

“Bad dream?” He shook himself out of the reverie to see Aziraphale smiling down at him, reaching over to gently brush strands of bright red hair from his eyes. “You always get clingy when you have one.”

“Nh.” Crowley was pressed as close to his angel’s side as he could get, arms twined around soft stomach, one leg hooked over Aziraphale’s knees. There was a warmth emanating from him, surrounding them both, a warmth that had nothing at all to do with Hell or Earth, a warmth that could heal everything in Crowley within seconds. “Better already.” He pressed his face into the soft tartan flannel, soaking it all in.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” A little too quickly, perhaps, but Aziraphale didn’t try to pry, simply pressed a kiss to the top of his head, breathing deeply, as if he enjoyed the burnt-match smell that still clung to Crowley even after all this time out of Hell.

“Alright. Get some more sleep then, darling, it’s only just after seven.”

But Crowley didn’t have time to sleep. He needed to prepare.

Was the New Moon tonight? Most likely. And it was halfway between the Harvest and Hunter moons. The night the humans would have the most power. More than Crowley could resist on his own. Hard to judge how strong they were – felt like at least three, could be more. Already he could feel their hook in his mind, tugging at him. It was just lucky his mental defenses were still intact, or else they’d have him now, bound to a circle, and the questions…

Aziraphale noticed how tense he was, rubbed a hand down his back. “Crowley, dear, it’s alright. Just a dream. It’s over now.”

No, it wasn’t over. It had barely even begun.

“Angel…” he started slowly, not wanting to pull away. “I’ve got…some things to take care of today. Why don’t you head back to the shop?”

“Oh, no, I’d much rather stay with you.” There was no denying the growing concern in his voice.

“Really has to be done alone.”

“Can you tell me about it?” Now Aziraphale’s fingers clutched at the back of Crowley’s shirt.

“Ngh.”

He could. Aziraphale could probably help him. Even with his defenses, Crowley would be in for a fight tonight, and there was no one else he’d rather have at his side.

Except.

Except Crowley would have to tell him. Would have to say the words out loud. Would have to admit to all that fear and pain, and see the horror he could just barely keep buried reflected in Aziraphale’s eyes and then what was he supposed to do?

No. Much better to face this alone, as he always had. He could fight this off, and after the New Moon the humans wouldn’t be able to do more than irritate him, no matter how large their group. They’d lose the trace on him in a day or two, and that would be the end of it.

Besides, Aziraphale would only worry. And fuss. And get anxious and lose his appetite, and a thousand other things Crowley had sworn to keep him safe from.

No, this was the way it had to be.

“S’nothing to worry about.” Crowley lifted Aziraphale’s hand, kissed the back of it. Covering up his nerves as best he could. “Just demon stuff. I’ll call you first thing in the morning when I’m done. We can...mmm…go for a picnic?”

“It’s a bit cold for a picnic,” Aziraphale admonished, wearing his most put-upon frown. “And you know I would much rather spend the day with my husband.”

“Nh, I’m in trouble.” Crowley tried to smile, pushing himself to sit up. He felt a wave of cold the moment he moved away from Aziraphale, his mind filling with that echo of chanting, but he quickly slid beside his angel, head on his shoulder, arm around his middle. Back into the warmth. “I know you only call me husband when you’re angry at me.”

“Or when I’m angry at someone else. Do you remember that rude man in the park?”

“How could I forget?” This time his smile was almost genuine. “You made that old bigot cry. It was beautiful.”

“Well. I obviously didn’t want to use such harsh language, but there were children around. I couldn’t have them thinking his behaviour was socially acceptable.”

“My hero,” Crowley said mockingly, lifting Aziraphale’s hand to kiss it again.

“Stop trying to distract me. Why don’t I stay here and, I don’t know, make you tea? I know how to stay out of the way.”

“I just...it’s easier this way.” Another kiss. “And we do whatever you want tomorrow. Dinner? Trip to Paris? What are you in the mood for?”

Aziraphale pulled away a little, trying to see his face more clearly. “And...you promise it’s safe?”

There was no hiding the way Crowley hesitated, but he pushed through it quickly. “If everything goes right, worst thing that’ll happen is a sleepless night for me. No one else gets hurt, promise.” Not unless something went very, very wrong.

“I still don’t like it,” Aziraphale sighed. “But…I suppose…a nice walk in the woods? See the leaves?”

“Yes! Whatever you want.”

“Scarecrow competition?” Crowley nodded eagerly. “And...a maize maze? Oh, a vegetable grower’s contest! There’s one at that farmer’s market over in Oxfordshire – we can stop by Tadfield and see how everyone is. And then we can fly kits and carve pumpkins and – and have a bonfire with marshmallows—”

“We can’t do all that in a day!” The demon slumped back down with a dramatic groan, head hitting the pillows with a thud.

“You said whatever I like. And if I’m to be deprived of your company for a day, I expect you to make it up to me.”

“Fine,” Crowley growled, rubbing his jaw. “S’Friday tomorrow anyway. We can make a weekend of it.” He’d need to recover, and a weekend out of London sounded more appealing than ever. “Just promise you’ll let me take a nap first. Then we can head over, take the kids wherever you like. I’ll even do jack-o-lanterns. Show them how to make a proper one out of a turnip.”

“Alright. It’s a deal.” Aziraphale leaned across and kissed his lips. “And if you insist on being mysterious and secretive, that just gives me an entire day to think of wonderful autumn activities for you. There will be fuzzy jumpers. Maybe a crown of leaves.”

“Bastard.” Crowley kissed him back, trying to pull in every ounce of that warmth.

He’d need it to get through the night.

--

The back room of Crowley’s flat contained his most important possessions – an eagle lectern rescued from a bombed out church, several artworks by Leonardo da Vinci, a photograph of Aziraphale, the first he’d taken when they no longer needed to keep themselves a secret.

He hadn’t meant for the room to have a theme, but all the important things in his life tended to have something in common.

He tugged open the safe that had once held his flask of Holy Water. The flask itself was long gone - Aziraphale had whisked even that away, a gruesome reminder of his greatest fear. Crowley had never considered asking for a replacement; the first had nearly cost Crowley the most precious thing in his life, and that was too high a price to pay.

Still, he wondered how Aziraphale would react if he knew about the box.

Tucked in a corner of the safe sat the simple chest of dark wood, sigils traced across the lid with little more than a hint of the silver that had once inlaid them. Still, they remained strong enough to keep the box safe, and to keep Crowley safe from it. Even picking it up made the hair prickle down his arms, his fingers tingle. It was almost too heavy to lift.

He carried it to a table in his solarium, settling it between trembling plants. They, at least, would have a relaxing day. No time to shout at them now. The lid rattled when he set it down - it had once locked securely, with a key that he carried everywhere, until an emergency caught him unprepared and Crowley had shattered the latch to get inside. He should get it replaced, probably, but in truth the only one he needed to keep out was himself.

Crowley flipped back the lid.

The inside was lined with deep red velvet, worn and torn in many places, and packed tight with rows of glass vials. Some held salt, others spices, herbs, small stones, one even had a jumble of tiny iron nails; the largest held pure black ink. A side compartment held larger stones – amethyst, agate, selenite, quartz. In another, a bundle of candles, black and white and deep violet. An Evil Eye pendant, the back carved with symbols of protection even more obscure.

Every good luck charm, every token of protection that humanity had ever devised. Everything that had ever been waved at him in fear, in an attempt to ward off the evil spirit - everything except holy symbols. Not because he feared them more (though he did), but because they wouldn’t be any help to him now.

Even without the Holy Water, Crowley could still be a danger to himself. Every object in this chest, if used properly, could harm a demon – some of them almost fatally.

He’d learned long ago that sometimes he needed to take risks to protect himself.

--

Crowley decided to make his stand in the bedroom. No windows, only one door, practically a cave, though a literal cave would have been better. He miracled out all the furniture, leaving a glass-fronted concrete cube, facing west across the solarium to the windows, then set to work scrubbing walls, floor, even ceiling until it was almost astringently clean.

Grabbing a bowl from the kitchen, he mixed salt, black pepper, cayenne and a few other ingredients, muttering words of power few humans would still remember. His fingers began to sting as he stirred them through the mixture, but that just meant it was working. Crowley carefully poured a thin line of black and white powder, moving in a clockwise circle in the center of the bedroom, being careful to leave a gap to move in and out through.

Four black candles, set at the cardinal points; four white halfway between them. Three violet, inside the circle. He wasn’t sure if those last ones did anything, but he’d never been summoned while burning them, and he wasn’t going to risk it now.

Another clockwise pass through the room, putting down incense burners – cedar, cloves, dragon’s blood, sandalwood. Even unlit, the scent of them made his lungs ache. He could feel the power building in the room, like a charge of static electricity, like lightning looking for a place to ground itself.

The vial that should have held garlic was empty. He’d used it all back in the 70s and never replaced it. Stupid. Careless. He could miracle some up, but he’d learned the hard way that anything he manifested would be useless for protection until cleansed by a witch. Book Girl would probably help if he asked, but not without asking questions and making it a whole thing. She wouldn’t be as bad as Aziraphale, but it still wouldn’t be good.

Besides, he didn’t even have time for a trip to the grocery store, never mind Tadfield.

The jar of ink, thankfully, was filled to the top. He snapped his fingers to create a paintbrush – that, at least, he could manifest safely – and set to work dabbing sigils of protection on the floor and across the walls. They were hasty, badly formed – but each one hurt, a burning flash of pain up his arm as he finished it, some of them jabbing at his heart. He couldn’t imagine what a proper sigil would do to him, so he went for quantity over quality.

Sixteen around the outside of the salt-and spices circle, eight more around the inside, and one on each wall. In between he set the stones, piles of herbs, and glass jars filled with dried flowers and less savoury items.

The protection in the air was almost palpable now, dragging across his skin, clinging to him like the heat in a sauna. It made his head spin, and he wasn’t even done.

The box was nearly empty now, just a pile of assorted good luck charms – a horseshoe, a rabbit’s foot, a stone with a hole worn through the center – and the Evil Eye amulet.

They burned when he picked them up.

Fumbling, Crowley set the last items around the innermost circle, barely leaving himself space to sit.

Every time he stepped into the solarium, it was like the shock of a cool breeze on a hot day, or the flare of a campfire on a frozen winter night. Both at the same time. A relief. The bedroom repelled him.

He leaned against the table, eyeing the empty chest, trying to think of anything he’d missed.

Nearly sunset. No time now.

He reached for the box of matches, then hesitated.

Heading to the back room one more time, Crowley made a quick call on his mobile phone.

“Hello,” a cheerful voice called across the line, and a little worry unknotted almost immediately. “I’m sorry, you just missed us. We’ve been closed since August—”

“It’s me.”

“Oh! Crowley! How are you? Did you, er, take care of what you needed to do?”

“Nh. Finishing up now.” He grabbed what he needed and turned back, feet dragging as if he could delay the inevitable. “Few more hours. So. Um. Don’t worry. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Well, of course I’m worried, you silly thing.”

“Really you don’t—” The sky burned red as the sun sank behind the buildings of Mayfair. The hook in Crowley’s mind stirred to life.

“It’s my job to worry about you, dear,” Aziraphale went on. “Why don’t you let me come down and help. I’m sure whatever it is—”

“Nuh. No chance.” He snatched up the box of matches, hand shaking so badly half of them immediately spilled onto the floor. Get it together, Crowley! “Stay wh – where you are.” 

“Crowley!” Now there was no mistaking the deep concern. “Something is wrong, I can hear it in your voice.”

“S’fine.” Why was his voice so high?

“I don’t believe that for a second.” A pause, while Aziraphale probably paced around the room, lips pressed together. “I...I know you have your secrets, and I’ve never pried. I won’t start tonight. But, please, just tell me...are you sure everything is alright?”

Crowley took a deep breath, pulling off his glasses to rub at his eyes. No, he wasn’t sure. There was nothing sure about summonings. He’d be in for a fight tonight, and the smallest thing to distract him or throw off his wards could bring disaster.

He knew what he was doing, he was good at this, really. Hadn’t lost the fight in centuries. Not since 1386, when a group of seven summoners had overwhelmed all his defenses. Of course, Crowley had barely escaped them, and when he had…

No. He would not – could not – tell Aziraphale that.

But he wouldn’t lie, either.

“Honestly…no. But I don’t think there’s anything you can do.”

“Crowley…”

“S’fine. M’gonna feel…” His throat closed up, and it had very little to do with the lingering scents of incense. “Feel so much better when I see you tomorrow.”

A short pause, and then a voice so soft it nearly broke Crowley on the spot: “I love you, dearest.”

“Yeah.” Crowley wiped at his eyes again. “I, uh…” Swallowed, tried to clear his throat. “I…”

A tug of power at the back of his mind, almost too subtle to feel. So strong already. The sun hadn’t even fully set.

“I gotta go.” Crowley’s voice was rough, even to his own ears. “Call you in the morning.”

He shoved the mobile into his pocket and hurried back into the bedroom, striking a match as he went, trying to keep his fingers from trembling and putting it out.

Moving clockwise around the room one last time, he carefully lit candles and incense, filling the room with thick, cloying scents. The tug on his mind weakened, but the protective charms were almost as bad, flaring across his skin like red-hot razor blades.

When everything was complete, he settled in the center of the room and poured out the last of the salt-and-spices mixture, closing the circle. At least seven layers of protection surrounded him, candles and charms and sigils and everything else humanity’s fantastic imagination could devise.

Crowley tied the amulet around his neck, where it hung like a millstone, and placed the object he’d retrieved from the back room in front of him: the photograph of Aziraphale, smiling at St James’s Park, three days after the world had ended and a better one had taken its place.

The picture wouldn’t provide any protection, but it made Crowley feel stronger anyway.

“Right, Angel,” he managed, crossing his legs and hunching his shoulders. “Here we go.”

Through the windows of the solarium, he watched the sun vanish.

--

The first attack came an hour after sunset, at 7:18 PM, just as the tension was beginning to make Crowley’s back ache.

Candles flickered around the room, and the flames turned violet-black, one by one, growing, towering almost up to the ceiling. Whenever a candle shifted, it tugged at Crowley, absorbing his own power as much as the power invading his space.

A wind stirred around the circle of salt, sending stray grains rattling and tumbling away. Glass vials rattled and clicked, but so far everything held. Crowley tried to recite the mantra he used - Latin, very dignified and appropriate - but he kept messing up the words.

The air of the room sucked at him, like the sea going out before a wave, and Crowley barely had time to brace himself before the wind solidified, slamming against his circle like a physical force, swirling around him, coiling, boiling, trying to find a way in. 

Each impact rattled him, and the hook in his mind pulled, trying to drag him towards the door.

“No, no, no, fuck off!” He braced his feet against the floorboards and crossed his arms in front of his chest. He gave up on the Latin and tried something more his style: Get the fuck out of my home, repeated, over and over, until it was no longer words, just a wave of sound.

The power slammed against his circle again, nearly knocking him over. One foot lashed out, and his toe caught one of the glass vials of protective herbs. It teetered - spun - and fell over, rolling towards the circle of salt. “Oh, shit, no--”

Before he could put the blessed thing back, the power sensed the hole in his defenses and struck. It hit him in the chest, like an arrow, like a harpoon, and the force of it threw him to the ground. Gasping and twisting, Crowley sprawled on the bedroom floor, scrambling for something to hold on to as the line of power started to pull, dragging him towards the door. He scratched at the concrete floor, the ink-drawn sigils, but there was nothing to hold. His toe tapped another vial.

Fuck, why did I put so many of these things in here? He used the pull on his chest to force himself to sit up, despite the pain, and caught the vial before it fell. The first one had come to rest just shy of the circle of powders, leaving them unbroken. Where did this one come from? All the blessed trinkets made circles within circles, and if he didn’t plug the gap—

Something not-quite-solid shot around Crowley’s neck, constricting, squeezing, pulling him to his feet, up, off the ground. It was a hand, he could feel it, fingers digging into his flesh, becoming more real as it tried to pull him to his destination. Crowley twisted in the air, helpless, feet kicking futilely at a captor who stood miles away, scratching at his own neck in his desperation to get free.

One finger shifted, brushed across the amulet he wore, and suddenly it released him, dropping Crowley in a heap in the middle of the circle. He coughed and tugged at the charm, which sliced his finger like broken glass even though it was still intact, and crawled across the sigils to the gap in the circle of stones and jars. Another bolt of pain struck his shoulder, insubstantial fingers plucked at the collar of his shirt, but with a scream of “Leave me the fuck alone,” Crowley slammed the little glass jar back into place—

A flash of black light and a shock of pain through every nerve—

And suddenly everything was still again.

The candles burned, blue flames steady, the circles unbroken.

Crowley curled into a ball at the center of the circle, shielding his wounds. Everything hurt, his ribs, his shoulder, his back, his neck. He felt like he should be a bloody, bruised mess, but apart from the tiny cut on his finger there was no sign of injury. And beyond that, the cold, every part of him down to his core, a bone-deep cold beyond shivering.

With a great effort, he managed to push his sleeve up enough to see his watch.

7:24 PM.

It was going to be a long night.

Already, somewhere in the back of his mind, he could hear the chanting again, calling to him. The candles started shifting from blue to black. Already.

His eyes fell on the picture of Aziraphale, smiling like a bastard by the duck pond after stealing Crowley’s ice cream. Crowley hadn’t been angry. He’d ordered Aziraphale’s favorite for a reason.

“S’gonna be alright, Angel,” Crowley muttered, forcing himself to sit up even though his arms and chest and head felt like lead. “I’ll see you soon.”

No wind this time; the summoners tried a different approach. The quartz crystals began to glow and hum, a high-pitched noise that ground against Crowley’s eardrums.

He braced himself, eyes on the door.

“Alright, you assholes. Do your worst.”

--

Crowley was not winning.

Candles lay scattered across the floor, most with flames snuffed out, and he had long since lost the power to miracle them back into place. The charms, the herbs, the incense - everything had failed, one by one. Even the sigils were smudged beyond recognition.

Every part of his body was bruised, broken, sore.

Now Crowley clung to the ceiling as a powerful wind shifted the circle of salt, grain by grain breaking down his last barrier. His fingers dug into the light fixture, even as more lines of power than he could count buried themselves into his bones, hauling him towards the door. Metal twisted under his fingers.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he groaned as the circle below grew thinner – thinner – and vanished altogether, breaking the protection with a snap he felt in his soul.

The forces pulling on him – harpoons and snares and hands and everything else the bastards had thrown – suddenly became irresistibly strong, ripping him free, dragging Crowley back along the ceiling.

His feet slammed into the glass above the door, bracing him, but only for the moment. 

It was the last line of defense, the last thing keeping him safe – once he passed through the door they would have him. He pawed at his jacket looking for any other tricks – the amulet had burst shortly after midnight, all the powders burned to nothing, even his mobile phone was gone, lost in some struggle he barely remembered.

Nothing remained but his legs bracing against the wall and ceiling, his mind bracing against the pain and the call, and his glasses…

Shit, that might work.

He pulled them off and glared at the lenses. More black holes than mirrors, but they might be reflective enough.

It was dangerous, trying to reflect power back on the attacker. It worked best if you knew who was attacking you and where they were. A desperate stab in the dark could go wrong in too many ways.

Worse, leaning forward to attempt this might tip his balance enough to drop him through the door, ending this fight entirely.

But what else could he do? Try to hide in this corner until dawn released him?

The glass cracked under his feet.

Now or never.

Planting his feet on the ceiling, Crowley swung his head down, glasses in hand and pointed west, through the door, in the direction the power pulled him. Shoved them right where the pull was strongest and snarled, “Get out of here! Find some other bastard to play your games. I’m not fucking going!”

And just like that, the power released him.

Crowley hit the floor – hard – hard enough to crack his ribs, if they weren’t already damaged, hard enough to slam his teeth against each other. He spat out a mouthful of blood – had he bit his tongue? Or some other injury in the night, ignored until now? – and wriggled across the floor, grabbing four candles as quick as he could. North, east, south, west, all around him. One still flickered and he used it to light the rest before the attack could come again.

But…nothing came. Not even the chanting in the back of his mind.

He looked at his watch, cracked but still running. 5:08 AM.

Had it worked? Had he made it through the night?

Crowley shook his head and let his gaze drift around the room, trying to focus on anything.

What a mess. Broken glass, plant matter and powders scattered everywhere, formless smears of ink, burnt-out wax stubs. Even his glasses were destroyed, frames twisted, glass melted.

Would he have to do this again tonight? Most summoners could only manage an attack like this on certain nights when the forces of the universe aligned, but these had been strong and persistent. There was a chance…

At the center of the room, Aziraphale’s picture suddenly burst into flames, turning to ashes in a heartbeat. Too quickly for a stray spark, for a mundane fire.

“Shit, no, no,” Crowley’s eyes darted around the wreckage for his mobile. Had he dropped it in the corner? Blown out of the room in a stray wind? He snapped his fingers, trying to summon it, but he couldn’t find a whiff of power.

It could be a mistake. It could be a trap. One step out from his makeshift candle circle, and they’d have him, and Crowley didn’t have the strength left to endure what came next.

But if something had happened to Aziraphale, that didn’t fucking matter, did it?

One cautious step past the candles, half in and half out. Nothing.

Three steps to the door, leaning through into the incongruously still-clean flat. Nothing. The plants didn’t even stir.

He crossed the solarium, gazing out through the windows at the night sky. The miracle that allowed him to see the stars despite the lights of the city was rapidly fading, as he hadn’t even the strength to sustain it, but he could still see Venus, clear as lamplight, and Regulus, and Leo…

It wasn’t even near dawn.

And still, nothing tugged at him, nothing beckoned.

Which could only mean…

Crowley ran from the room, all pain forgotten.

--

“No, no, no, shit, shit, shit, no, no, shit, fuck, no,” he muttered the entire drive to Aziraphale’s shop, an excruciating three and a half minutes at speeds the Bentley had never previously reached.

The east window lights were on, the rest of the shop dimmed, the way Aziraphale liked it when he was reading all night in his favorite chair.

The door was blown wide open.

Crowley slammed the Bentley into park right in the middle of the road and staggered out. “No, no, no, Azira—”

There, lying in the doorway: a suit, a waistcoat, a tartan bow tie.

Aziraphale was gone.

Crowley had told the summoners to find some other bastard, and they had. They’d found his bastard.

He collapsed in the street, and for the first time that night, screamed in pain.

Chapter Text

Crowley’s entire world shrank to the bowtie cradled in his hands.

Everything else faded away. The street, the waking city. He knelt on the step, trembling, staring at the last sign of his angel. Mind blank, lost in darkness.

His fault.

Everything that had happened. His fault.

Everything that came next. His fault.

He could have told Aziraphale.

They could have shielded themselves together. Or Aziraphale could have set up his own defenses here. Or they could have tried to get far enough away. Or…or…or…

But now Aziraphale was gone.

They had him, they were hurting him. Trying to control him.

And it was all his fault.

Crowley had one job. Only job he’d ever cared about. Only thing he’d ever been good at. Keep Aziraphale safe.

But he’d fucked that up, same as he’d fucked up everything else in his life.

What would they do to him first?

The last time Crowley had been summoned, the humans had had a book. A grimoire. All the demons in Hell, allegedly, their true names, their weaknesses.

He’d heard of such things, of course. No demon would admit to having been summoned, ensnared, captured by mere humans, but rumors circulated nonetheless. Did you hear? Paimon’s true name is in the grimoires. Did someone sell him out, or did he betray himself to the humans? Did you hear about the fires in Paris? Haborym was there, but no one ordered it. Was he…harnessed?

In the dark cell of some fourteenth-century castle, humans had demanded Crowley reveal his true name, told him it would be less painful for him if he simply surrendered control. He’d refused to say a word, and they’d driven a silver spike through his hand, carved with holy symbols that burned away parts of his demonic essence. His palm had carried the scar for a century; his soul would carry one for eternity.

He pressed his left thumb to the center of his right palm, rubbing it across the bowtie. Feeling the centuries-old ache, deeper than muscles and nerves. It still hurt, sometimes, when he was tired, when his energy reserves ran low. It probably would forever.

They would do the same to Aziraphale.

The thought dropped across his mind like an ice bath, snapping him out of his reverie.

While he sat here, sulking and blaming himself, those—those humans were doing things to his angel.

No. The sooner Crowley found him, the sooner he could put a stop to this.

There would be time for guilt later, when Aziraphale was safe. First, he had work to do.

Wrapping the bowtie around his palm, keeping it close, he staggered to his feet and headed into the shop.

--

Consciousness returned to Aziraphale slowly.

First, he became aware of the pain. As if he had been stabbed through the heart and pulled inside out. His chest felt the worst, but everything was sore and…cold?

Yes, two types of cold. A deep, existential freeze that filled him, flowing from his chest down his limbs and up into his brain; and a more mundane external chill, a room too cool, a little damp. The floor below him was especially bad, concrete that held in the cold and reflected it back to him, amplified.

Also, he was naked.

As an angel, such things didn’t bother him, but as a proper gentleman with a reputation to protect, it was most unbecoming. How had this happened?

He remembered sitting at home, waiting for Crowley to call. He’d spent most of the night staring uncomprehendingly at one book after another, pacing near the telephone, then returning to stare at another book. Something was wrong, very wrong, and he didn’t know how to help.

There had been a sound at the door, a rattle, a rush of wind. He’d stood to investigate and—and—

“Are you awake now?”

Aziraphale’s eyes blinked open. A dark room, windowless, lit only by a scattering of candles, but each one seared through his head, sharp and pounding. “Ah. Getting there, I think.”

As the words left his lips, something rolled through him, like a stomach cramp—peaking at a quite painful level, then dissipating just as fast. Oooh. Perhaps he should speak as little as possible.

“Can you sit up?” The voice was brisk, he supposed, but not unkind.

“Not sure.” Another strange cramp rolled through him, twisting a knot, then vanishing. The pain in his head, meanwhile, continued just as strong. Aziraphale closed his eyes and pressed against them with his hand, though it did little to help. Eventually, he managed something that could pass for a sitting position. “There, I suppose that’s…that’s something.” He shifted his legs, trying for modesty, but gave up when he realized he didn’t know where the speaker was. “Could you tell me where I am?”

His stomach didn’t hurt this time. Perhaps sitting up had helped, though his skull pounded harder than ever. He hoped the holder of the voice could be prevailed upon for a glass of water, possibly a blanket.

“That isn’t how this works,” the voice said calmly. “Have you ever been summoned before?”

“Summoned?” Aziraphale wished his head would clear, or that the ache in his chest would fade. He shivered, elbows tucked tight against his chest for warmth even as he cradled his sore forehead. “I’ve been summoned many times. Summoned to court. Summoned to business. Summoned to report in…”

“Babbling,” a second voice said, female, perhaps. “Completely delirious.”

“That’s normal,” said the first. “Usually passes after an hour or two. And it’s a good time to question them, before they know what’s happening.”

“I’m sorry, who are we questioning?” Aziraphale was certain he’d missed something very important. Time to try opening his eyes again.

The room was so dark he thought it was a cave at first—most likely a basement or root cellar of some description. Yes, it had an earthy smell, under a musk of incense so thick it was difficult to even breathe, and the taste of salt, sharp at the back of his throat. Candles were spaced evenly around the room, glowing in different shades of blue and violet and black. How novel.

Dark shapes loomed out of the blackness—people. The one directly in front of him was likely the speaker, though it was difficult to make anything out; the strange candles cast more shadow than light. The man wore a deep red cloak with the hood pushed back, but apart from that looked like any other human in London—modern clothing, dark hair with a bit of silver, stubble on his chin. The sort of man one might see standing in line at the bakery or bringing his children to see a film on a Saturday afternoon.

Aziraphale nodded weakly, trying to smile. Something like an answering smile pulled at the man’s lips, though the way the candlelight reflected off his black eyes made it seem…eerie.

The angel tried to take a quick glance around the room, though doing so made his vision burst into flares and flashes. Four more, he thought, evenly spaced around him, cloaks blending with the shadows. Two others behind the lead figure – each one standing at a lectern carved in some sort of twisted animal shape. The one on the left paged through an enormous book quickly, occasionally glancing up at Aziraphale. The other tapped idly on a thick tome.

Apart from the one who’d spoken to him, the figures were dressed as young people did—denim trousers, t-shirts with colorful characters or the names of bands. Their cloaks were more ill-fitting, hanging heavily as they moved. One—the figure behind the lectern to his right—pushed back the hood to reveal a young woman with short black hair and a curious frown, leaning forward as if to get a better look at him. Aziraphale smiled at her, rubbing a hand across his aching sternum, but she didn’t even seem to notice.

She had, Aziraphale realized, the same look in her pale blue eyes as the man who’d spoken to him did: calculating, curious, as if trying to work out a puzzle. And laser-focused on the angel.

Hoping for some clue, he let his eyes fall to the floor. A line of metal ran, buried in the concrete like a railway track, between him and the circle of humans. No, not a line. A curve. Bright gold. And just a pace beyond it, another, in silver, and beyond that, brass.

Three rings, all different metals, embedded in the floor, surfaces engraved with delicate sigils. More runes filled the ground within them—some in dark paint, some carved and lined with silver—shapes and letters swirling and crossing in spider-web patterns that converged on the spot where Aziraphale sat.

He prodded one of the lines with a finger, and felt the power running through it, cold as a river of ice.

“Ah. You’re interrogating me.”

“We are,” the lead figure said, voice a little less kind. “Have you been summoned before? Things will go much easier if you have.”

“No…not like this…why am I here?” Another cramp, and Aziraphale very nearly doubled over from the pain. Somewhere on the far side of the room, there was a faint reddish glow, pulsing, brightening as the pain grew, softening as it faded.

“That’s why I can’t find it.” The figure to the left closed his book. “Not a single demon close to its description.”

“But…no, there’s been some mistake.” Aziraphale struggled to stand, nearly losing his balance twice. “I’m not—look—I’m not a demon at all, I’m—well, I’m an angel.” He attempted to summon his wings and halo as proof.

Nothing happened.

The foremost figure scoffed. “That must be the most ridiculous lie I’ve ever heard, and I’ve been summoning demons for over twenty years.”

“You have? Oh. Seems a strange sort of hobby.” Aziraphale rubbed at his eyes one more time—the headache had peaked in a wave of nausea as he stood, but now seemed to have settled. Goosebumps prickled his arms. “Look, could I trouble you for a robe? I really prefer not to converse while—”

“If it isn’t a demon, would that explain why we had such a hard time?” the woman to the right asked.

“No,” the leader said. “They always fight. Not often this hard, but it’s not unheard of. That’s why we take two nights—the first to snare our prey, the second to reel it in.” He took another step closer, stopping just shy of the outermost metal ring, and tilted his head, considering. “Still, after the fuss this one kicked up all night, I’m surprised it came so quietly in the end.”

“Two nights? Don’t be absurd.” Aziraphale tried to take a step forward, but the air felt strangely thick, as if he were moving through water. “I didn’t feel anything yesterday, and certainly not…”

His mind cleared, just a little, and all at once he remembered how Crowley had clung to him, whimpering in his sleep. The terror in his eyes as he woke that only grew worse while they talked. The mysterious chore that had kept him occupied all day, all through the night. His voice during their last call, so tight with fear he couldn’t even speak.

“That was you,” Aziraphale said slowly, stepping towards the innermost ring, pushing through the resistance. “He knew you were trying to summon him. He knew you wanted to hurt him.” His foot crossed over the first metal circle, momentarily stopped by an invisible force. He pressed on easily. The humans all took a step back. “What were you planning? Why did you want a demon?” The second ring, and the power sizzled across his skin as he stepped over it. He tried to miracle up his clothing, managed a robe similar to what he’d worn long ago at Eden. Good enough. “Now you have me instead, and you will answer my questions.” The third ring held him back with an almost tangible force, yet Aziraphale still pressed forward, step by inexorable step. “What were you going to do to my husband?”

“What kind of demon are you?” the lead human demanded.

“I told you, I’m not a demon.” He tried to manifest his wings again, and they pressed against reality, nearly visible, nearly substantial. Some of the humans turned away, shielding their eyes from the light and power. “I’m an angel.”

The moment the words passed his lips, the pain hit his stomach like a fist, and he staggered backwards, clutching his gut. The power he’d been gathering into himself snapped away, wings vanishing instantly, and the light, leaving him exposed in the darkness.

The young woman said a few words—was that Greek? Latin? Sanskrit?—and the ground below Aziraphale burned hotter than Hellfire, but at the same time colder than the depths of space. It tore across his skin in a bolt of all-consuming pain. He threw his head back to cry out, but it poured into his mouth and down his throat, filling him, choking him, burrowing into his very bones—

Aziraphale lasted almost five seconds before collapsing.

Somewhere in the hazy distance, voices again. “Move it back to the center. I’ll reset the sigils. Something went wrong.”

“No, look at the energy well. It told the truth.”

“How could we possibly summon an angel?”

He lost track of the voices, sliding back into unconsciousness. No, no, you fool. They’re distracted. On your feet. Run.

But nothing would move. Aziraphale couldn’t even stir a finger to defend himself.

“Listen,” the leader’s voice rose above the rest. “If this is true, we’ve done something no one has managed in all of human history. We’ve summoned an angel. No one’s ever captured one – no one’s ever harnessed one before. Think of the possibilities!”

“But can we contain it?”

“The seals held—more or less. It had no power in the innermost circle, and it couldn’t pass through the third. The energy well is working as normal, the spell knocked it out. I think we can actually do this.”

“What if it tries to break free again?”

There was a pause, a rustle of cloth.

Two of the figures grabbed Aziraphale by the wrists, another by the ankles, and they dragged him unceremoniously back across the concrete, dumping him like a pile of forgotten laundry. He struggled to open his eyes, managing it just in time to find the leader kneeling beside him, black eyes glinting eagerly. “What are you…?”

A flash of silver, and the man plunged a knife deep into Aziraphale’s right bicep.

“Ah!” The angel gasped, but a moment later he felt the blade slicing into his true form, burning into his essence. “What – No! Stop, please, stop this!” He reached out weakly with his other hand, clutching at the man’s robe, his sleeve.

The human only twisted the knife. It sliced through muscle and nerves, but beyond that – on another plane – a piece of Aziraphale’s true self was torn loose, pulled from the rest of him, shredded, pulverized. The angel threw back his head and screamed, not just with his human larynx, and the entire room trembled—

The knife pulled free, releasing a stream of deep red blood shot through with lines of pure, glowing white.

“Look at that!” The young woman knelt beside her leader, grabbing Aziraphale’s arm, fingers pressing in to make the blood and ichor flow faster. She held a glass jar below, catching every drop. “I’ve never seen anything like this before! I can practically feel the power coming off it!” She smiled with almost child-like excitement.

“And the demon knife works,” the leader said. “So if it gives us any trouble, we can destroy it.”

--

Crowley carried the phone to the back of the shop, base dangling from his fingers, handset jammed between ear and shoulder. It was hard to search the bookshelves this way, but it was never easy. Did Aziraphale even have the books arranged by subject? Or had he switched to title? Publication century? Color? Was there even an organizational system, or did he simply shove everything on the shelves and rely on miracles—

“Hello?” A confused and half-awake voice grunted on the other end of the line.

“Book Girl,” Crowley snapped, finally spotting what he needed. Books on occult science, summoning, necromancy. His hands shook as he pulled down the manuals—ancient and modern—and tried to wedge them all under one elbow.

“Nnnno, Anathema’s still asleep. This is Newt.”

“I know—Why are you on her phone? If I needed advice on how to—to be incompetently human, I’d have called you! Get her up!” One more book, on the top shelf, looked promising. He stretched towards it, trembling legs barely able to support his weight.

“Really don’t have to be so rude. She’s coming. But if this is about that lavender tea again, it’s not going to be ready until—”

Pain shot across his palm, making his fingers briefly numb, and the book tumbled to the floor. He tried to grab it, spilling the rest all around him. “Fuck!”

“Right. I’m here.” She rarely got angry, but sometimes you could hear it lurking behind her voice, like a breadknife hidden in a skirt. “You better not be swearing at Newt, or you are not invited to wine night next month.”

“Nrrrrrrgh!” Crowley dropped to his knees and started flipping the books over, spreading them out around him. No time for the indices, he tore through to random pages, eyes jumping from one to the next. He wished he knew what he was looking for. “No, I was—never mind. Just. What do you know about demon summoning?”

A very long pause. “That’s…really not the sort of magic I do. I would expect you to be the expert.”

“Well. Can’t really get a good look at the spell books from where I’m generally standing.”

“You mean you—”

“Yes!” He snarled, trying to read seven books at once. “And I don’t want to talk about it, not now, not fucking ever, just—do you know anything or not?”

“There is no need for that language,” she said, warningly, then sighed. “And…not really. I can ask around some of my online groups, but that’s a whole branch of magic I try not to associate with. Look, did something happen? Are you in trouble?”

“Yeah, something ffff…something bloody well happened.” A print of a demon riding a camel struck him as too familiar. Crowley was sure he’d glimpsed the same artwork over some necromancer’s shoulder seven hundred years before. That alone was enough to make his breath come short and his eyes water. He slammed that grimoire shut and turned to another. “Some assholes tried to summon me last night. I need to know who they are, and where they are, right now.”

“I’m…look, Crowley,” her voice was tense, guarded. “I’m sorry that happened to you, I really am, and I can’t imagine how—how frustrating it must have been, but it’s over now. You’re—I’m sure you’re fine. And I’m not…comfortable helping you get revenge, or—”

“Shut up!” He slammed his hand onto a page and jerked it back, his palm burning as if struck by a fistful of red-hot pins.

The manual had fallen open on a two-page table, a collection of dozens of sigils purported to neutralize demonic energies. Columns and sub-headings classified them by elements and moon phases and other categories that were utterly meaningless to Crowley. All he knew was that half of them were completely useless—and the other half could hurt him, even printed on a page like this.

One in particular stood out, a crooked circle with thick lines braided through. Used correctly, it did much worse than simply “neutralize energies.” Once, an amulet carved with that symbol had hung around his neck, pinning Crowley to the floor as effectively as a spike through the chest. Another time, it had been branded into his leg, trapping him in an ancient tomb long after the necromancer had gotten what he wanted and fucked off. Months in the darkness, staring at the fading scar, hoping that when it finally healed, he could break its hold on him, fearing he’d never see the sun again…

That was the truly terrifying thing about necromancers. They could tap into forces strong enough to bend demons to their will, but they were children playing with nuclear weapons. They didn’t understand a fraction of what they could do, and when they pushed too hard…things tended to break.

Or explode.

“Anathema…” his chest was tight, the words barely squeezing past it. “They…they took Aziraphale. They took—they have him. And I d—I don’t know what to do.” He pressed a hand over his eyes. He wished he had his glasses. Even over the phone, he felt exposed. More than that, he wished he had Aziraphale.

“Oh…I…can they do that? I mean, they did, so…Oh, stars, Crowley, I’m so sorry.” Her voice had gone soft now. No one ever spoke to him in a soft voice. No one but Aziraphale.

“I just…I have to find him.”

“But…yes, I’ll help, of course I’ll help. But, worst case, when they’re done with him, they let him go, right? And best case—Aziraphale can handle himself.”

“Nnnnnnn.” He ran his thumb over the tartan cloth wrapped across his palm. “You don’t know what it’s like. What they can do. How badly they can…Right now, he’s naked, and alone, and trapped, and he doesn’t know the rules, and they’re—”

His voice caught, throat tight at the memories. It wasn’t a sob, whatever Anathema might think.

“I…I wouldn’t wish that on any demon,” he mumbled. “Not my worst enemy, and he…he’s…”

“Right.” Anathema’s voice was all business. “Newt? Get your scissors and start looking through those New Aquarians. I’m going to ask around online. Crowley? Crowley, listen, we’re going to figure this out. If there’s anything to find, we’ll find it.”

“Mmmmrrrr.” It was as close to a thank you as he could articulate.

Please, Aziraphale. Just hold on.

--

The young woman twisted a scrap of white cloth around Aziraphale’s wrists, tying it in a tight knot. “There. Can you escape that?”

He turned his hands this way and that, wrists rubbing against each other, and watched the way the sigils – hastily drawn in pen – shifted as he moved. A doubled circle of ink and cotton. “Could I at least have my robe back? I know you needed some cloth for…this,” he waved his bound hands, “but surely the rest is no use to you. There’s no point in making me sit here—”

“I asked you a question.”

Aziraphale wriggled uncomfortably where he sat, legs crossed, on the ground. It would have been uncomfortable to a human. To an angel – particularly one used to plush armchairs and the latest in foam mattress support technology – well. It was quite nearly unbearable.

The woman’s spell had left Aziraphale numb all over, unable to move from the lingering pain racing up and down his nerves. He’d lain on the ground for some time, partially aware of the murmur of excited voices, the rush of feet. More red-cloaked figures had entered from a door he could barely make out, tucked in a corner, atop a short flight of wooden stairs, just an outline in the dark. There were as much as a dozen at one point, he thought.

Eventually, enough feeling returned to Aziraphale that he could stir, attempting to sit up. Before he’d even managed to lift his head, three humans had surrounded him, tugging at him, at the sleeves of his robe.

“Where did you get this from? How did you make it?” one of them had demanded.

“Muh…” Aziraphale barely managed to get his hands under him, half-lifting his body. “Manifested…” Another of those strange cramps rolled through him, and he nearly fell again.

“Manifested? Does that mean you created it from nothing?”

“Mmmmmh.” He tried to lift his head enough to see who was speaking. He was supposed to be angry at them. Couldn’t remember why. “Spare atoms. Celestial energy. Creation…stuff…” Why did his stomach keep hurting like that?

Another murmur of excitement, and suddenly the hands were pulling him upright, stripping off his robe. They’d dropped him back to the ground and run off, leaving him to sit there and try to knead feeling back into his legs.

He hadn’t even had time to clear his head before the young woman arrived to start testing containment sigils on him. He recognized them, of course; they were the same as the ones on the rings that surrounded him, or related, at least. Only certain combinations worked on angels. But she was working through the possibilities with almost celestial efficiency.

“No,” he responded to her with a disarming smile. “I’m quite inextricably bound.”

She glanced over her shoulder at another figure, far across the room near some sort of column or font that occasionally glowed red. The figure glanced inside it and shook their head. “We know you’re lying. Try to escape. Tell the truth. Or I can see which of these amulets harms you.”

He eyed the row of ten metal charms, flat discs carved with runes and symbols, lying on the ground beside her. “I was under the impression you planned to do that either way.”

She pursed her lips. “True. Did you want me to start testing them now?”

Testing. He tried to file the word away. That seemed to fit with what he could see in the dark room, now illuminated here and there with bright white lanterns.

On the far side, that glowing font, the figure next to it taking notes in a small book. At a table by some shelves, two humans sat—robes tossed casually across their chairs—working on some sort of spell. The vial of his blood lay on the table between them, seeming to glow slightly in its own light. At another table, a cloaked figure methodically tore Azirphale’s robe into strips, sorting them by size.

Yes. They were testing. But why?

The leader paced the room, silver dagger tapping against his thigh. His black eyes, glinting in the darkness, never moved from where the angel sat.

“You asked for it.” The young woman slapped one of the amulets against his knee, and it felt like a blade, driven deep into the bone.

Aziraphale yelped and tried to jerk his leg away. The amulet slid along his skin, leaving a bright red streak of blistered flesh.

“Huh. Looks like about half strength.”

Half strength. Compared to how it would have worked on a demon. On Crowley. He felt the anger beginning to bubble up again, alongside the image of his beloved companion, here in this place, being hurt by these humans for no reason.

His arms tensed, until the cut in his bicep burned, a fresh stream of blood bubbling forth. The woman turned away, eyes dropping to the line of amulets, and in that moment he moved, lunging forward. The cloth ripped apart easily, freeing his hands as he tried to leap to his feet. His legs still ached, but this was his only chance to act, while the humans were distracted, if he could just cross the rings—

Before he could even fully rise, the woman pressed several amulets against his thigh. One of them burned, tore at him, as if his leg had been wrenched from his body. He tried to roll away, but she was too quick, pressing the burning amulet against his shoulder, then his neck, searing into his throat.

“Damn it,” the woman muttered, holding the amulet down with one finger. He found, to his shame, that was more than enough to immobilize him. “Still nothing,” she called over her shoulder. “I’m going to need more cloth. And someone get another set of vials over here, it’s bleeding again.”

“Good job with the amulets,” their leader’s voice, soft and smiling, from across the room. “Which ones worked?”

“A-series was only partially effective, but F seems to be full strength. B, D, and E did nothing.”

“What about J?”

“I expect so. I’ll try it next.” She frowned, blue eyes piercing into Aziraphale as she lifted the searing disc from his throat. “Are you going to try that again, or are you going to sit down and cooperate?”

“I…I’ll stay…” It was all he could manage with his throat so raw and tight, and still another cramp rolled through him, as painful as the first. There was no point in running. He felt his anger give way once more to a sort of sullen exhaustion. It was getting harder to fight it off, to keep alert.

“Good.” She moved away from him with hardly a glance and unrolled another strip of cloth torn from his robe. Her pen moved across it, sketching out another, slightly different line of sigils. “Be a lot less trouble for you if you do.”

Aziraphale sat up, shaking his head and rubbing the tender skin of his throat. “Why are you doing this?” he rasped, trying to sound reasonable.

The young woman’s face lit up in a smile. “Me? I’m a researcher.” She glanced at a small notebook beside her and carefully traced another sigil. “No one’s ever had a chance to study an angel up close before. Imagine what we could learn.”

“But…if you just ask me, I could tell you!”

“Oh, you will. Eventually.”

She wrapped the scrap of white cloth around Aziraphale’s hands, double-circle of fabric and ink, secured with a knot. “Let’s try this again. Can you escape that?”

--

The Bentley tore across the city, Crowley slamming the transmission into higher gears, gears that didn’t even exist now never mind when the car was created. She responded perfectly—whatever miracles made the car herself had long since become self-sustaining.

Two things sat in the demon’s pocket: the tartan bowtie, and a scrap of paper with the information Anathema and Newt had been able to find. They’d keep searching, call if they found anything else—not much help, as the shop didn’t have an answering machine—but there was only so much even a particularly clever witch and her uncannily astute boyfriend could uncover.

Already the morning sun had crept above the horizon, throwing long streaks of light between the black shadows of the buildings. At the speed he drove, it flashed like a red strobe light.

Crowley needed answers, now. And he could only think of one other place to get them. But it would mean playing a card he’d hoped he’d never have to play. And going to the one place he never wanted to see again.

A sharp turn around the last corner, so fast the Bentley spun out of control, twisting and teetering, careening towards the plate glass windows ahead. Crowley was tempted to crash straight through them, but he stomped the brakes, clutch and throttle in a complicated pattern. The Bentley squealed to a halt, her bumper coming to rest against the window with hardly a bump.

Crowley stumbled out of his car with an absent pat on the roof, trying to breathe deeply. Not because he needed the air, but because Aziraphale had read him a book on stress management and he needed to try something.

It didn’t help. If anything, standing on the street and gazing up at the building only made him feel worse.

This was stupid. Insane. It would get him destroyed. It wouldn’t help Aziraphale at all, unless he had a plan, a bluff, a bargain—something, anything clever.

He didn’t have a blessed thing. He didn’t even have time to think of anything. Whoever had Aziraphale had been working on him for nearly two hours already.

Crowley could still remember the first time it had happened to him.

Enegi, a second-rate Sumerian city, over thirty-nine centuries ago. Rumors had begun to circulate that the humans were doing something they shouldn’t be able to, that demons were going missing, but of course he’d ignored them. Too wrapped up in his own adventures. Too busy trying out new alcohols. Until he came home one night and stumbled right into the trap.

Not even a summoning – humans hadn’t figured out how to call a demon yet – but some asshole priests had carved a few containment circles on the ground of Crowley’s rooms while he was out. He’d stepped straight into them, not realizing what they meant.

Two days. Two days trapped in lines and curves carved no deeper than his fingernail. Two days, powerless as a mortal, while those pathetic humans beat him and questioned him. Poured something on him that burned, leaving patches of flesh smoking and black. The first human-blessed Holy Water, still not quite strong enough to destroy him. At least, not like this.

They wanted knowledge, hidden secrets of the universe, and he’d even shared a few.

Until he realized every answer he gave put him deeper into their power. The more honest he was, the faster it worked.

By the second dawn, he could no longer think for himself.

The priests had assumed he was worn down. Compliant. Ready to do their bidding. So they broke the circles, letting him out—

The same mistake the humans would make in the third century, and again in 1386.

It wasn’t that they never learned. They were clever bastards, and only got cleverer over the millennia. Better control, better weapons. Played with bigger and more dangerous spells, just to see what they could do this time. Pushed and pushed until they pushed too far…

Every few centuries, they lost nearly everything they’d learned. Too secretive with their manuals, too careless with their notes. Too fragile when things went wrong.

And then, every time, someone would come along and start it all over again.

The only consolation was that those who dealt with dark powers tended to land on the fast track to a very specific subsection of the afterlife.

But that didn’t help demons already in their clutches. It didn’t help the survivors, who carried the darkness in their minds, to terrified to even speak of it. And it certainly didn’t help Aziraphale now.

The morning sun reflected off the glass façade of the building, creating a mirror. Hazy and indistinct, Crowley could see the buildings, the street—and himself. He was a mess. No glasses, shirt and jacket torn, hair in disarray. The bruises and scrapes across his face and arms were starting to turn up, bright and angry against pale skin, and his lip was swollen.

He rubbed at a bruise, but still didn’t have the power to heal himself. Couldn’t even manifest a comb—when he tried, black plastic flickered briefly into reality on his palm, then vanished without a trace.

Ten hours in a protective circle had done more damage to him than it had to his attackers. They’d left him broken, drained, and still took the only thing he cared about. The only one…

Well. Time to get him back.

Crowley stepped into the lobby. Ahead of him, two sets of escalators leading up into a brilliant light, and their shadowy reflections descending into darkness.

--

Aziraphale twisted and pulled, but the flimsy cloth held, stronger than bonds of iron. “No,” he responded to the young woman’s question, again feeling the pain in his gut. It didn’t hurt as much anymore. Or rather, it still hurt terribly, but his mind was oddly disconnected. “No, I’m…I’m quite inextricably bound.”

“Perfect. I’ve got it!” She called over her shoulder, scrambling to her feet. “Sigil seventeen on the inner ring, and twenty-three on the second – where’s my scriber?”

She hurried off to find a tool, leaving Aziraphale like a cast-off glove, like a forgotten toy in a child’s playroom.

He drew his legs in and tried to stand but he was…tired. Just so tired. Things ached. Legs. Throat. Arm.

The man Aziraphale suspected was the leader glanced at him, a flash of calculating eyes, silver dagger twisting between his fingers, before crossing over to one of the groups of humans, the one that seemed to be preparing a spell.

No one was looking. This was his chance. Run for the circles, now before…

Before…

What was he supposed to be doing?

“It’s working!” One of the humans said, and nearly the entire group dashed over to the table where something now began to flicker and glow, everyone crowding around for a look.

A distraction.

He managed to get his feet under him, to rise, shaking his head numbly. Did it matter which direction he walked? No, he was in the center. Same distance to any edge. That was geometry. Radius and circumference and concentric and all those other words clever humans came up with so many centuries ago. Clever, but not always nice. Like this lot, who were…

Ah, yes. Forward.

He shuffled one foot, then the other. His legs still ached where the amulets had touched him. But it wasn’t that far, just a few steps—

The lightest push from a human and he sprawled on his back again, head striking the concrete floor. “I got it,” a voice shouted, as a heel ground into his bicep again, re-opening the wound, and more blood and ichor leaked into a vial. “How much you need?”

“That should be enough,” called another voice.

The foot lifted off his arm, and stamped hard into his stomach, a shock of pain. “Stay put.”

Aziraphale whimpered, rolling onto his side.

The young woman reappeared, a sharp tool in her hand, and knelt by the innermost ring. “I got it now. Pretty easy fix.” She started tracing a new sigil, scratching it into the surface of the metal.

Aziraphale watched as the humans took the fresh vial of angelic blood, tipping it over the spell, a faint flicker around a pile of ingredients in the middle of a hastily-drawn circle—

There was a flash of light—

And a murmur, quickly growing into a cheer. “We’re going to be rich!” one cried.

“Did you see that reaction? Imagine that on a third-tier spell. This is revolutionary.”

“Very, very rich!”

“We’ll be able to set up a second location. Shit, we market this right, we can start a franchise.”

The leader turned his dark eyes back towards Aziraphale, crouching to study the captive angel, dagger tapping against his knee, a smile hovering on his face. “Let’s try some feathers next.”

--

Crowley paced the length of the lobby, back and forth, heels clicking on the smooth glass floor.

There was no security. Didn’t need it. Anyone trying to enter Heaven uninvited would sink into the watery, unreal floor the moment they stepped upon it—and those who descended to Hell without an invitation soon regretted it.

If he paced here long enough, someone would come. Couldn’t have disgraced former demons loitering around, messing up the place. But every second he waited was another second Aziraphale was in danger.

And in any case, the watery floor only extended two meters from the base of the escalators. And Crowley had long legs.

He stood by the revolving door, rocking back and forth, judging his trajectory. Three, two, one— Crowley dashed across the floor, heels striking the glass like hammers. At the first brush of slippery instability, he jumped.

Didn’t stick the landing, though. He crashed onto the escalator, banging his ankles, his knees, his chin. Biting his tongue so hard it started bleeding again.

But, when he blinked the flashes from his eyes and looked behind him, Crowley was going up.

A demon. Entering Heaven uninvited. Without a drop of power.

This should be fun.

He didn’t bother standing up, just settled on the steps, elbows on his knees, watching the dark floor fall away. Spat out the mouthful of blood, and watched it spatter across the oh-so-clean glass.

Faint traces of black swirled among the red. Demonic blood. Every drop of it containing just a little piece of the raw, unearthly power at the core of his true form.

When had humans first worked that out? Centuries ago. Millennia, when Rome was nothing more than a barely-habitable swamp on the edge of Etruscan lands.

Spell components enhanced by demonic hair, or feathers, or whatever else they could gather. Power multipliers, making the spells stronger, exponentially, logarithmically.

Just a few drops of blood and suddenly the weakest amateur witch was capable of blowing her own head across the country. He’d seen it in person—once—over two thousand years ago. A single drop of his blood into a spell meant to bring strength or wisdom or love or some other human bullshit.

But something had been out of proportion. The explosion destroyed the village—and dropped Crowley back into the depths of Hell.

The demons tried to keep it a secret, tried to bury the knowledge. A few even used elaborate misdirection while summoned to try and set the humans on the wrong trail. That backfired in its own way, when humans started to think torturing demons alone would be enough to give them power.

But every few centuries, some clever magic user would capture a demon, get some blood on his knife, and wonder, hey what happens if I try this?

Humans. Too fucking curious for their own good. And whose fault was that?

Nearly to the top now.

Crowley pushed himself onto his feet, clutching the handrail for balance. Tugged his ragged jacket as straight as he could, running a hand over his hair.

I’m coming, Aziraphale, he promised, looking at the barely-visible door lost in shadows below. Hang on, just a little longer.

The conveyor belt slid his feet back onto solid ground. He took a deep breath, put on his most daring grin, and turned to face the light of Heaven.

Chapter Text

“There we are.” The woman brushed her fingers across the final ring, and looked up to smile at Aziraphale. The genuine happiness dancing in her pale blue eyes sent a shiver through him, though he couldn’t think why. “Go ahead and try crossing if you like. You’re not going anywhere.”

“Great work,” the leader said, inspecting the changes over her shoulder. “Can you alter the other spells to match?”

“The containment spells, yes, I think so. Those are pretty similar to these. The harnessing spells we’ll have to test as we go, but I’ve already got some notes. Summoning…” she sucked her teeth. “That’s going to be difficult. Should only be one or two changes, but there’s a lot of possibilities to try, and it’s not going to be easy to narrow them down. But now that we know it’s possible…”

“It’s an excellent start.” He walked around the outer circle, counting sigils. “Have you ever studied demonology, angel? It’s a fascinating field.”

Aziraphale sat in the center of the circles, turning and shifting now and then to keep his eyes on the human. The others buzzed about in the background, shadows in the dark, too much to keep track of. Who were they? Scientists? Scholars? He liked scholars, generally. Did he like them?

“I’ve studied many things,” Aziraphale answered. The wave of pain was fairly easy to ignore by now. He just wished his mind would clear. “Spell books. Prophecies. Grimoires. As much nonsense as sense in all of them.” He giggled. “Does yours have that one demon, the lion with duck feet? Utter nonsense.”

“Oh I agree. What do you expect from backwards medieval minds? From so-called sorcerers ready to believe every rumor, and bored scribes who altered and embellished every copy? Four thousand years of practice, and yet every text contains misinformation and fairy tales. Hardly a science at all. That’s why we’re building our own grimoire.”

Aziraphale’s brow wrinkled. That should be important. If he could work out what it meant. “Are you…planning to summon every demon in Hell?”

“Perhaps.” He crouched down tapping a few of the sigils on the ring at his feet. “We’ve also been working through the old spells and rituals. Collecting them, compiling them. Taking a more scientific approach. Once you really understand how it works, you know how one little change…” he pulled out a wax pencil, adding a single line to one of the symbols “…can make a tremendous difference. You should be able to show us your wings now.”

Did he want to do that?

He could remember that he’d tried to manifest his wings, several times, though he couldn’t remember why. Was this human helping him? That didn’t seem right at all.

“No…I think…I’m more comfortable like this.”

“Come now.” The man smiled, but it didn’t reach his dark eyes. It hardly reached all the way across his lips. “I’m sure they’re nice wings.”

“Oh, yes.” Aziraphale felt himself smiling back. “Very lovely, soft and white. Humans seem to find them very impressive.”

“Isn’t that nice? I would really like to see your wings.”

It was very nice. It couldn’t hurt to show them. Crowley had just groomed them the other day, and he always left the feathers so smooth and beautiful, though he would complain about how little attention Aziraphale had been giving them.

He closed his eyes, remembering. Crowley’s chiding, almost angry voice a contrast to the oh-so-gentle fingers running across Aziraphale’s wings. His touch so reverent, even after all this time, as if he couldn’t believe he were allowed such an honor. Now and then his grumbling would get out of hand, (nothing actually cruel, there was no cruelty in him, just an edge to his tongue he’d honed for thousands of years, to keep him safe from threats he would never discuss, never name), and Crowley would stop himself, wrapping an arm around Aziraphale’s waist, pressing his forehead to that spot between his shoulders where the wings sprouted.

And then he would get back to work, softly kissing Aziraphale’s neck and shoulders, until Aziraphale reached up to stroke that red hair, guiding his face closer…

Crowley.

With a shuddering breath, Aziraphale blinked open his eyes, trying to clear the tears. “I…would be happy to show you if you let me go. Please.”

The human smirked and pulled something—an amulet, perhaps—out of his pocket, pressed it to the ring before him.

The metal began to glow, a brilliant blue, brighter and hotter until Aziraphale had to shield his eyes, until the air was too thick and dry to breathe, until—

ZAP

The lightning seemed to strike him from all directions at once, burrowing into him, arcing from nerve to nerve again and again. Aziraphale collapsed against the ground, twisting and kicking and flailing, jaw so tight he couldn’t scream if he wanted to—

And then it was over. He lay, in more pain than ever, on the cold floor.

“Don’t make me ask again.”

“Please, I just want to go home. You don’t know—”

He tried to brace himself this time, but that only made the pain worse.

“Show. Me. Your. Wings.”

“Why? What could you possibly—AH!”

Aziraphale curled on his side, hands buried in his hair, no thought but the blinding, burning pain—

“Stop!” he begged, face wet with tears he didn’t remember crying. “Please! If you destroy my corporation, I’ll—”

“Oh, you won’t die from this,” the human promised. “You’ll just wish you could.”

A fourth time the power ran through him, how was his flesh not on fire, how had his bones not melted—

“Yes! Yes! I’ll—I’ll—” The pain cut off as abruptly as it had begun.

Beautiful white wings erupted from his back, stretching out to lay limply on either side of him, wing tips brushing the invisible wall of the innermost circle. He was too tired to fold them back.

A clatter of feet, and suddenly a knee pressed between his shoulders where they sprouted, forcing him flat on his stomach. Rough hands tugged at one wing. “Look at this! The size of it! All those feathers!”

“Get as many as you can. Don’t break them! And get some cotton, in case it starts bleeding again.”

A pair of pliers flashed, then another.

And the sharp, dragging pain of feathers being plucked.

A weak, piteous gasp escaped him, a sob.

“Tears—look, you think those will work, too?”

“Probably. We can sell them either way. Put this under its face.”

A hand grabbed his hair, jerking his head up, and a glass bowl slid below him, catching his tears.

--

Crowley stepped off the escalator into the wide, empty halls of Heaven.

No alarms sounded.

No army of soldiers rushed to apprehend him.

No flash of power struck him down for his arrogance.

In fact, there was no one to react at all. No one watching. Not a single angel in sight, just blank empty floor, stretching out in all directions.

Bloody rude. Never get this sort of reception in Hell.

“Hello?” He sauntered forward as confidently as he could. “Anyone here? Gabriel? Uriel?” He squinted left and right, looking for any sign of…anything. “Honestly, I’ll speak to any twit with a ledger. Even speak to Sandalphon if I have to.”

No response, not even an echo.

This wasn’t right.

The area at the top of the escalator was a very public lobby, probably the most crowded part of Heaven. There was the entry section, where everyone was checked in, and the corridors down to each of the major departments, with messengers flitting up and down between them. Guards should stand at each one, carefully marking all the comings and goings in perfect celestial bureaucracy.

All that was gone now, replaced with the endless flat floor, and distant walls that never seemed to get closer no matter how far he walked.

“Look, I need to speak to someone about your—your operations on Earth.”

His voice faded into the vast space. For a moment, he thought he saw a flicker of a shadow across the floor, but no—even the reflection of the lights didn’t move.

Crowley ran his fingers through his hair, wishing he had anything, even a table to jump on.

“Oi! Sorry to interrupt your precious holy contemplation hour, except I’m not, this is bloody important!” Frustrated he pulled off his jacket and flung it onto the floor, just to try and make a gesture. “Demonic invasion happening here! Look alive!”

Nothing.

With a groan, he picked up the jacket, dusting it off and turned back to—

The escalators were gone. As were the elevators, the opening down to the lobby, and the front windows, gazing across the whole of creation. Just a featureless blank void, stretching to infinity in every direction.

“Oh, yes, real bloody fucking clever, I don’t care! Stop with the parlor tricks and come talk to me!”

Dead silence.

“Look, you absolute wankers, do what you like! Enjoy your petty games!” He folded his arms and tipped his head back towards the ceiling pitching his voice to carry as far as it could. “That just gives me more time to talk. And I feel like talking about… demon summoning.”

Turning on his heel, Crowley started walking in a big circle, waving his arms as if giving a presentation to a captive audience. “Absolutely fascinating science—did you know that for almost two thousand years, humans had no access to magic of any kind, and then one day they just…did? And you’d think—you’d think that like any other science they’d start with the small stuff, maybe just how to weaken someone a little or plant a minor compulsion, but funny that, they just all at once started drawing circles of containment. Impenetrable barriers. Command words that could drain a demon’s mind and will, harnessing spells to leash them to a particular human, all sorts of ways to compel them to obedience. Now how do you think the humans learned that?”

He waited, ears straining. Was there something in the silence now? Perhaps some slight hissing of whispers, or shuffling of feet?

“I mean, no way to find out, right? Whoever those first lucky humans to work it all out, well, you know what hubris gets you. Killed by one of their own captives.” His eyes scanned the ground, selecting a likely spot, where the reflection seemed just a tiny bit off. Crowley sauntered towards it, hands shoved into his pockets. “All their followers are dead and gone, all their records destroyed in about five different dark ages. Can’t even talk to the demons they caught, right? Because they killed them. Made them drink that imperfect Holy Water they’d developed at the same time. Another strange coincidence.”

He came to a stop, glaring at the empty air in front of him. Yeah. He could smell the arrogance. “Only, everyone forgets, there was one demon that escaped. The one that killed them.” He took a shuddering breath, fists clenched at his sides, trying not to remember the scent of blood in the desert air. “And do you know what those priests told me?” Crowley’s voice was low and strained but still carried through the empty room. “That all that knowledge came from—”

It wasn’t that Gabriel appeared. That would imply some kind of shifting of the air, the removal of an illusion. The air in front of Crowley simply stopped being empty, and he was looking into the blinding smile and dead violet eyes of the Archangel. “I think we’ve let you talk enough.”

“Hmm. Sensitive about that, are we?”

“No. Your voice is just making me nauseous.”

A hand fell on Crowley’s shoulder. He glanced right and saw Michael, and a moment later Sandalphon to his left. Probably Uriel behind him, but he didn’t have any desire to turn his back on Gabriel. “Well, I guess the feeling is mutual. How about you answer my question and I go on my way?”

“Oh, I’m not here to answer questions.” Gabriel gave him that disgusted look, like Crowley was something stuck to the bottom of Creation’s shoe. “I’m here to deal with an infestation.”

“By all means.” Crowley pressed his lips together. Oh, Someone, he wished he had his glasses, but he could keep his gaze steady, he could stop himself from shaking, if only for a minute. “Why don’t you go grab the Holy Water? I’m sure everyone here would love the show. Right, Michael?”

He shot a glare to the right. No chance of replicating that winning smile Aziraphale would have given her in Hell, but by the way her eyes widened, Crowley felt the point was made.

“We don’t have to destroy you,” came Uriel’s calm voice—as expected—from directly behind him. “Just throw you back where you came from.”

Wasn’t sure if that meant Earth or Hell, but Crowley wasn’t willing to risk it. “You really don’t need to go through the trouble. Just one little question.” He pulled the scrap of paper from his pocket, holding it up between two fingers. Hoped no one could see the trembling had started again. “Someone—some humans— have been selling demon blood. Don’t know why it surprised me. You can get anything over the internet these days.” He flicked his wrist, throwing the paper at Gabriel’s feet. “Where are they?”

“Not my concern,” Gabriel said evenly. “Throw him out.”

The Archangel turned away, but Crowley surged after him. “Bullshit!” Three pairs of arms grabbed him, but Crowley didn’t care. “You liar! Twenty years they’ve been summoning us and selling us for parts under your fucking nose, and you had nothing to do with it?” He couldn’t even imagine the size of the operation, but from what Anathema and Newt had put together, they had customers all around the world, and there was no shortage of supply.

Without a true name, about a third of demon summonings succeeded. As many as four per year, an ample supply of blood, toenails, whatever the fuck was in demand these days. If they had true names, well. Thirteen new moons per year.

There had been rumors in Hell that the necromancers were active again. Happened every few centuries. Demons started missing check-ins, then going missing entirely, everyone felt that certain chill every four weeks. But no one talked about it, no one ever talked about it, and in the silence, the threat grew again and again.

Gabriel glanced back, as if idly curious. “Why would we know anything about that?”

“You know why.” The other three Archangels were dragging Crowley back. He didn’t have any power, he could feel the rush of adrenaline fading. In a moment, they’d be able to pick him up like a rag doll, but for just another minute he could fight. “And you know what? They have Aziraphale! What the fuck do you think is going to happen when they try using celestial magic?”

Gabriel flinched. So did Michael.

Crowley spun to face her. “You know, don’t you? Course you do, you know everything that goes on.”

Her eyes narrowed, briefly, but her sweet smile didn’t waver. “What I know,” she said, loudly, as if for an unseen audience, “is that Aziraphale is a failed angel. If summoners were able to capture him, he must be more degraded than we thought.” She jerked her head towards the escalator as it materialized a few meters behind her, and started off after Gabriel.

“Yeah, funny that.” Uriel twisted his arm and pushed him forwards; Crowley tried to push back, but it was like shoving a car. “Funny how a summoning spell meant for a demon could catch an angel! Funny how he hasn’t escaped yet! Oi! Michael!” She didn’t turn, but then, he wasn’t really talking to her. He kept his eyes locked on a spot of floor where the reflection seemed a little darker. “Now that they know they can summon angels, how long before they try again?”

For just a second, the illusion flickered, and he could see the crowd of angels listening.

Then Sandalphon’s fist connected with his stomach, and Crowley bent over with a groan.

One last shove propelled him towards the escalator. He teetered on the edge, lost his balance, and skidded down, headfirst, into the darkness below.

--

Aziraphale huddled on the floor.

His wings had been plucked bare. His head shaved. More cuts from the dagger, one on each arm and leg, the better to collect blood. Those hurt the worst, on a plane the humans couldn’t even perceive.

The young woman drew a symbol directly onto his skin with a marker. “How does that feel?”

“Don’t feel anything,” he mumbled. Somewhere far away, the pain ran through him.

“This would be a lot easier if you’d just cooperate.”

“It’s the best we can hope for,” the leader’s voice came from somewhere beyond the circles. Past the edge of the world, in the dark starless night. “It’s a good sign. The energy well is working even better than with a demon. It’ll be under complete control soon, though that puts you under a bit of a time crunch. Think you can handle it?”

“I can handle anything.”

He should be worried. Aziraphale couldn’t remember how to be worried.

Out of the darkness, the leader emerged, black eyes glinting. He sat outside the innermost circle. “I’m ready to ask my questions now.”

“Oh.” The young woman was drawing another symbol across his leg. “Then can I go home?”

“Where is home?” The man pulled out a pen and notebook.

“Soho. Lovely little bookshop. And the flat in Mayfair. It isn’t cozy, but Crowley likes his conveniences. Perhaps we need a place that’s a little of both—”

“Focus. I thought angels would live in Heaven.”

“Yes. They do. But the commute is awful. And they don’t like us much, my husband and I.” His eyes burned again. “I miss him. So lovely. So kind.”

A tear rolled down his face, and the young woman deftly caught it in a small jar.

“Husband?” The leader raised an eyebrow. “Another angel?”

“Not at all. He—”

The man waved a hand. “No, wait, one thing at a time. Power sets first, then we can look at human/angel relations.”

“What do you think?” The woman asked. “Some kind of voluntary harnessing?”

“Could be. Or another trick to make us pity it. Still, definitely worth exploring. But before that: what sort of angel are you?”

Now that was a complicated question. Soft angel. Failed angel. All-to-human angel. No, those didn’t seem right. “Principality. Guardian.”

“That sounds important.”

“Middling. Used to be quite well-placed for my rank. Guardian of the Eastern Gate. Several other domains over the centuries. Last promotion made me Principality of Earth.” He smiled at that. Crowley had brought him so many gifts that week, though he insisted he wasn’t celebrating anything in particular. “Demoted now, but…for a while…”

“Now that is interesting,” the human said, writing quickly. “Do the promotions and domain changes have any effect on your power? Or where you can operate?”

“No, just titles really.” The pain rolling through him was so distant now he could almost ignore it. “Responsibilities. Orders. My powers are the same as when I was created. Strength. Manifestations. Healing. Blessing. Protection. Doesn’t change. Same as my true name. Principality. Guardian.”

“Those are part of it, aren’t they? Part of your true name?”

“Yes. Part.” This topic made him uncomfortable. One didn’t discuss true names in public.

A sharp pain through his leg as the woman finished another symbol. He shifted, whimpering, but didn’t have strength to do much else.

“There’s one,” she said, adding a red dot from another marker. “I’ll go over these with a blade once I’ve got enough, they’ll last longer carved into the skin. Needs at least two more for the harnessing to hold.”

“Good.” The dark eyes didn’t move from Aziraphale’s face. “What is your true name?”

More than uncomfortable. For a moment, the angel’s mind started to clear. “No. No, I’m—I’m not going to tell you that. What would you want it for?”

“So we can summon you again. If we need to. And it will make the harness far less painful.”

Another burning pain across his back. He bent almost double, trying to pull away from his own skin.

“Two down,” the woman said happily. “Going to try for four, just in case.”

“Please,” Aziraphale mumbled. “You don’t need to do this. I’ll tell you whatever you want. Just let me go. Please.”

The leader sighed, closing his notebook. “Not this again. No. You don’t get to leave until we’re finished with you. And when you do, it’ll be to whoever wins the bidding. You’re fairly powerful, not to mention a lot less disgusting than our usual merchandise, so I expect you’ll go for a lot.”

“What…what…I’m an angel.” Surely that would mean something.

“Yes. Look at how many different ways you can enhance our spells. It’s incredible. Far more effective than demon blood.”

“Demon…blood…?”

“Mmmh. As you say, the old grimoires were full of bad information. Dozens of pages devoted to trying to force a demon to give us power, or knowledge, or long life. Ways to threaten, or bargain, or bribe. I’ve found a more direct method, not to mention more profitable. We’ll harvest as much from you as we can, then transfer your harness to someone who has the resources to hold you indefinitely.”

“But—no—” Aziraphale struggled upright, trying to stand but only managing to rise a bit on his knees. “Who would possibly want…”

The young woman laughed, pulling him back down. “Already a dozen buyers interested in you, and we haven’t even started the livestream.”

“Demon familiars have become something of a fad lately,” the man explained. “So much more useful than animals.”

“You can’t,” Aziraphale objected, trying to break free of the woman holding him, of the ragged scrap of fabric around his wrists. The darkness in his mind shifted a little, but that only added to the confusion. Why was he still here? Why hadn’t he escaped? “You can’t do this!”

“Now look. You’re all wound up. Let’s go back to the questions.”

“No! I won’t answer—I won’t just sit here—Crowley!” He shouted uselessly, desperately. “Crowley!”

“Pity. It had been behaving so well, too.”

“Crowley, please! Where—”

The dagger plunged into his shoulder, cutting down through tightly folded dimensions to pierce his true form, burning it as Holy Water burns a demon. Aziraphale threw his head back, screaming, fighting, feeling his angelic essence melt away, dissolve, bit by bit—

The pain ended, leaving Aziraphale adrift in a void, numb, sightless.

Slowly his vision returned, though he could still barely feel his own body. He was lying on a concrete floor in a dark room. A human sat on his chest, bloody dagger in his hand. A young woman was drawing sigils on his arm. “Crowley…” he mumbled.

“Now,” the human said, pressing the tip of the dagger to the other shoulder. “Are you going to continue this tantrum, or are you going to tell me how your blessings work?”

--

Crowley sat on the pavement, leaning against the Bentley, staring at the bowtie dangling from his hand.

He should go back to the shop. Maybe the humans found something. Maybe Aziraphale was back.

Maybe this whole thing could turn out to be a nightmare, and he would wake up in his angel’s arms.

He remembered it again, that first time he’d been caught. Two days sitting in the circles, huddled on the floor, obligingly answering every question, anything to make the pain stop. Everything had just…faded away. His will to escape. His strength to resist. His identity. Everything.

As long as those circles had been closed, he’d been a hollow shell of a demon, willing to say anything, do anything. He still couldn’t remember all the things they’d asked him, all the little bits of power he’d happily bestowed. Why wouldn’t he? These were his friends.

They’d had so many requests. Things he couldn’t do from his rooms, and he’d agreed to take them where they needed to go, perform their rituals under the stars.

So, they broke the circle.

Eventually, humans would master other ways to control demons. They’d learn how to set the containment runes on their bodies, so they could be led around. They’d learn how to harness the demon to a human, binding them together until that human’s wishes were met. They’d learn how to transfer that connection at the last minute so there was another human to obey, and another, and another. Stronger spells, better weapons, more specific sigils. They’d learn a million clever tricks, forget them all, and learn them again.

But, ultimately, it was all just trial and error. The sort of errors you didn’t walk away from.

The circle broke, and something rose from the darkness within to seize Crowley’s mind. All that warm obedience turned to boiling rage, seething hatred against the humans who had tortured him, unfathomable black fury—

He tried to believe it wasn’t really him. That some other demon possessed him, in that moment of vulnerability, perhaps the remains of the demons they’d already killed, seeking revenge.

Impossible, of course. That wasn’t how possession worked.

The next thing he was fully aware of, the humans were dead, the walls painted with their blood. His hands were drenched in it, his robes, his face, his mouth—

He fled the carnage, screaming, didn’t stop running until he reached the other side of the world. Tried to forget it had happened, as if he ever could, as if it weren’t burned into his mind.

He spent years trying to free himself of it, decades lost in the darkness they’d put in his mind. Flashes of that night would come to him still in his nightmares. Along with the third-century necromancers who hadn’t transferred his harness correctly, freeing him after almost a year of servitude. And the group in 1386, so powerful, so careless, a single misshapen sigil enough to make all their containment spells suddenly useless.

It broke you, being in the circles, being contained, controlled. Wore you down. Destroyed everything that made you you, until all that remained was…something else.

“I’m sorry, Aziraphale,” he mumbled, staring unblinking at the lines of tartan. “I’m so, so sorry…”

--

“An angel’s power, as you so crudely put it, is determined by many factors,” Aziraphale mumbled, no longer aware of how he was poked and prodded, no longer hearing the questions. His world had shrunk to occasional flashes of pain, and a pressure in his mind to talk. A black, empty world pierced by a pair of eyes, watching, boring into him. “The context of the action, their intention, their relative position on the most relevant hierarchies…”

He blinked. Possibly another question. “No, not at all. The human angelologies are too simple, too...one-dimensional. Little more than guesswork based on a handful of interactions.”

Another question? Or did he simply enjoy talking to himself? “A series of parallel hierarchies, distributed among the Archangels yet equally controlled by all.” That depended how it felt to enjoy something. He didn’t quite remember. “Each angel is created with a position along each of the hierarchies, which determines strength, ability, what duties they are equipped for, overall relative authority.”

A sharp pain on the back of his neck. Some part of his mind remembered the sigils. Likely another point, anchoring him to whoever controlled him now.

That was…did he like being controlled? He didn’t think so. There might have been a whole to-do about that, breaking away, leaving sides, starting a new life, him and…

And…

What was that fellow’s name?

“Sorry. In theory, yes, if you knew the desired position on all the hierarchies, you could summon the ideal angel for your needs, though you would need a few more pieces of true name for it to be effective the way you want.”

No, being controlled was…not good, but easy. Simple. Just had to float along with it, like drifting down a stream, like a feather in the wind.

“Yes, I can break down my true name for you. It’s quite long, but I can go slowly.”

What had he ever been worried about?

Chapter Text

“You were lying, weren’t you?”

Crowley raised his face to look at the angel. Small, dark-haired, slightly indistinct. Not wearing a proper corporation, really, but they still stood in the door to the lobby, so it wasn’t completely necessary.

“Lying?”

“Yes. Um.” The angel shifted in the door frame, leaning a little closer. “What you said up there. About—summoners—they can’t actually catch an angel, can they?”

“Why not?” Crowley stared up at the sky. Bright blue. Aziraphale had wanted to go for a walk. See the leaves. “What’s the difference between an angel and a demon?”

“Well. You are Fallen.” As if that explained everything. “Obviously.”

Aziraphale used to say that. Would he talk that way again? How badly had they hurt him already?

“Yeah. We Fell. All our power has to go through that detour, through Hell. S’a bit weaker, a bit corrupted.” He looked at the angel again. “Same power, though. Same being at the core of it.”

“That can’t be true. Fundamentally—”

“Whatever, kid. Believe what you want.”

He’d promised to keep Aziraphale safe. To shield him from the darkness he carried. To make sure his angel would never be hurt, or afraid, or lonely again. Useless, useless failure of a demon.

“Why…what will happen when they try celestial magic?”

A second angel at the door now, less pale, but just as indistinct as the first.

“What do you think?” He glared at them both. “Really. If a bit of infernal magic—demon blood or feathers or whatever—can make their magic ten times more powerful, what’s a bit of angel going to do?” Crowley pushed himself to his feet, wavering slightly. He wanted to go home and sleep for a thousand years. Of course, he’d miracled his bed away. And he’d only have nightmares. “Go on, I won’t be offended. How much better than a demon do you think you are?”

Now a third angel joined them. A hurried, hushed discussion, between concerned faces.

More angels coming down the escalator. All of them looking terrified.

And curious.

Crowley almost smiled, not a smirk but a genuine smile. After all these millennia, he still had it.

“So let me ask you, um…?” He nodded to the first angel, the one with dark hair.

“D…Dabriel,” they said. “Second Order Scribe.”

“Dabriel. Let me ask you. Why do you think Gabriel interrupted me when he did?”

“Because you’re a liar.”

“Am I though?” He could see the doubt in the angels’ eyes. He paced closer on unsteady legs. “And, if I am a liar, why would it be so important he stop you from hearing what I was saying?”

While the angels rapidly discussed this, Crowley squinted through the glass. Was that Sandalphon at the top of the escalator? He seemed to be calling for someone.

Not much time now. But one more question ought to do it. One more bit of forbidden knowledge.

“The real conundrum is, how did the humans ever find out about summoning and containment and all that in the first place? I mean, yes, every century or so, they find the old notes and try to work off those, but what about those first necromancers?” His eyes flicked from one angel to the next. “I mean, it was almost as if they had some instructions to work from as well. But where—could—that—come—from?”

He drew out the question. Hoping someone would make the connection, or at least ask—

“What…” Dabriel started. “No. You…you didn’t really meet the first ones, did you? You…” a lower voice, slightly horrified. “You’re not the demon who killed them?”

“Someone has to be.” He’d never told anyone. Not even Aziraphale. Not a word, no matter how the rumors had spread through Heaven and Hell. Later, there were other incidents. Other demons who carried the same nightmare. But that first one…

“And what…what did they say?”

Crowley leaned forward, conspiratorially. “Well, it seems,” he whispered, “that the head priest was given instructions personally by the chief god Enlil, and Utu, the god of justice, and Inanna the goddess of war. Only they had gone by other names, foreign ones he’d never heard before.”

He would never, ever have been able to prove it. So he’d lived with his quiet, hidden suspicion for thirty-nine centuries.

Who could have suspected the vindication he would feel, seeing the same suspicion run through the eyes of the angels? The satisfaction of Gabriel, Michael and Uriel appearing at the top of the escalators, looking down with impotent rage?

“They wouldn’t,” Dabriel insisted, but Crowley could tell they weren’t so certain. “That sort of interference—it’s against the rules.”

“Oh, well, if it’s against the rules,” the demon shrugged, backing away towards his car. “I guess it must have been some other divine entities. Who else would benefit from having us be hunted and trapped? Maybe it was aliens. I saw a special on television a few years ago—”

Another hissing murmur through the crowd, someone shoving Dabriel almost into full daylight. “Look. Even—even if it was, we don’t—you’re the enemy.”

“And I suppose we deserved it, yeah? Everything the humans did to us, and all those centuries wondering when it would happen again?” A few angels nodded, but even they didn’t look so sure. “Still, as war tactics go, pretty solid choice. A clever plan. But the thing about clever plans…” he put his hand on the Bentley’s door, hoping he had said enough, “…they have a tendency to come back around and bite you when you least expect it. Trust me. I know.”

He waited, holding his breath, as another debate raced through the crowd of angels, as Michael and Uriel started down the escalator, faces dark with fury.

Crowley opened the car door.

“Wait!” Dabriel called, then pulled back, uncertain. “I…we…that is…” They glanced at a few other angels and nodded. “There’s a group of summoners just outside London. Michael’s had us watching them for years, without saying why. It might not be the group that took the trai—that took your friend, but…they did catch someone last night, and…I know where they are…”

“Really?” Crowley could have cried. Could have screamed, the relief was so palpable he would have collapsed if the Bentley hadn’t been there to hold him up. But he managed to keep his composure and smile at the nervous angels. “Do tell.”

--

Rhoda carefully sketched the last harnessing rune on the back of her hand and felt the angel’s power flow into her.

“Holy shit, you guys.” She closed her eyes, feeling it swell within her. She’d never felt so calm, so safe, so at peace. Like a warm, motherly hug but from the inside out. And the power of it all, the strength…

“Does that mean it’s working?” Desmond asked, still watching the angel warily, dagger in his hand.

“Does—just take a look.” The floor was a little dusty in the corner. She traced a sigil with her toe, one intended to provide a bit of light, like a candle. The power raced out of her like a punch, like a hammer blow, and the entire room was bright as daylight. “I’d say so.”

“Fucking hell!” Warren rushed over to check the energy well. “It’s practically overflowing already, how does that thing have so much power left?”

“It’s infinite.” She tilted her head back, just letting the sensations wash over her. “And it’s…I can’t even describe it. Bliss.” Her eyes fluttered open, filled with tears. “It’s just so fucking beautiful.”

Rhoda had only just been promoted to the summoning team, but she’d been working with containment magic her whole adult life. She’d carried demonic power, even been harnessed to a demon before, and it was…impressive, but ultimately left you feeling a little dirty. The buyers for their demon subjects were usually the sort of people who could afford a lot of self-care to balance it out.

But she would gladly have spent the rest of her life tied to this angel. Glorious. That was the word.

“You are going to make someone so happy,” she said, grinning at the angel.

It smiled back, or at least made the motion. They didn’t really feel anything, of course, but were very good at pretending, to try and manipulate humans. You could tell by how quickly the demons shifted from threatening to bargaining to piteous pleading. Nothing behind it, just one tactic after another. The angel had been no different.

Still, its smile was very convincing. “I love making people happy,” it said. “It’s so good to be wanted.”

“You’re definitely going to be wanted. Are we ready to let it out?”

“Just setting up the camera now,” Rafe said, arranging the computer, webcam, and everything else they’d need to run the auction. The others were organizing spell components for a few very visible demonstrations of angelic power.

It wasn’t even about wealth anymore. This would change the game, change magic forever.

“Hang on,” Desmond interrupted, face as calm as ever. “Let’s make sure it’s safe. You all know what can happen.” No one really knew. There were certainly rumors, stories of what happened if you didn’t properly control your demon. But no one in the organization would dare be that sloppy.

He handed the dagger to Rhoda. “Test it.”

She trotted into the center circle and handed the blade to the angel. It smiled curiously, staring blankly at the etched steel.

“Drive that through your hand.”

“Oh, of course,” the angel said. And rammed the dagger through its left palm all the way to the hilt. “Will there be anything else?”

Its smile never wavered.

--

Of course it would be the other side of London.

Panic fought against exhaustion. Crowley rubbed at his eyes, blinking away the blurriness, trying to stay focused on the road. At 150mph, things could go wrong very quickly.

A traffic jam up ahead, or maybe just a red light, all the same at this point. He twisted the wheel and slammed the gears, hand so sluggish it barely moved. The tires screamed—something started smoking—and he left a long streak of black across the road, but he managed the turn.

Halfway there. Just keep going. Keep going.

--

Aziraphale watched the blood drip down his arm. His friends would want him to save that blood, but he didn’t have any way to catch it. Such a waste.

One of his friends was checking the marks on his body, going over them with a box cutter. He had to stand very still, to make sure their lines were straight. He smiled every time he caught sight of the human at work.

More were all around him, talking about something. He tried to listen, but his mind kept sliding off. Lighting. Sound. Camera angles. Were they making a film? Oh, that sounded like delightful fun.

“Should have left some on,” someone said, tugging at his wing. “Look at this. Bare skin. Looks sick.”

“Get it a towel or something. Don’t want to get shut down for nudity. Lousy TOS.”

“Anyone have any make up? This thing is so fucking pale, it’s going to look like a ghost.”

“Angel.”

He turned towards his Mistress, smiling. Everything else was hazy, shadowy, but she was a brilliant light he could follow to safety. Aziraphale could feel the way they were connected, a slight invisible tug pulling him towards her, though the circles still kept him in place. But that didn’t matter. She wanted him to stay here, so he did. Easy.

All Aziraphale wanted was to please her. He could see in her mind what she wanted most. Knowledge. Secrets no one else knew. To be the one to reveal them to the world.

That was exciting, really. Aziraphale would help her to find those secrets, however he could. It was his purpose now. It felt wonderful to have a purpose.

Mistress was crouched beside the rings now with a wax pencil, making small modifications to the sigils. “We’re almost ready to let you out,” she explained.

“Are we going for a walk?” He clasped his hands. Somewhere there was pain, somewhere on his hand, his neck, his back. Not important. “Oh, I love going for walks. And we can go by my shop, I have the most amazing books to share with you. Something on almost every subject imaginable.”

For some reason, his Mistress looked almost sad. “I don’t know if you’ll be able to take me. You have a busy day, you know.”

“Oh. Why don’t I just give you the address? You’re welcome to anything you like. Just tell the shop I sent you, it’ll let you in.”

“Yeah. That sounds perfect.” She moved to a spot between the outermost ring and the next one in. A jar of paint and a brush sat next to a silver mark on the floor. “Ok everyone. Last sigil.” She picked up the paintbrush and prepared to make a line. “Releasing the subject in three…”

Still talking, the humans moved a few steps away.

“Two…”

The human at the fancy computer set-up made a few adjustments.

“One…”

Aziraphale smiled at his Mistress.

“Now.” She smeared red paint across the mark.

Something in his mind snapped.

--

Construction.

One block to go, and the road was filled with diggers and trucks, cars rolling slowly up and down the one open lane.

“Come on come on come on come the fuck on!” Crowley leaned into his horn, but it made no difference. No one was going anywhere for a while.

Then he felt…something.

A tiny release of pressure somewhere in the back of his mind. A spell?

Deactivation. Something had just been switched off.

“Shit, no, no, no, no…”

He leapt out of the car. Where had it come from? This way?

“Oi! You can’t park there—”

“Fuck all the way off,” he snarled and started running.

One block to go. Crowley had never run so fast.

--

Who were they?

Who were these puny, worthless beings who tried to trap him?

Who were they to think they could control an Angel of the Lord?

Light flowed across his skin, illuminating the dark. Power surged through him.

He was power. He was justice.

And now he could make things right.

The flick of a hand sent one human tumbling across the floor.

Others stared at him, mouths open. Silence. Silence was good.

He grabbed the next human by the back of the neck and threw him at the far wall.

Now they were screaming. That was even better.

Something scratched him, some sort of weapon. It stung, just a little.

How dare they?

He broke the human’s arm, then his other arm, then his legs. Plenty more bones to break. One by one. Then the eyes, take those last.

This was good. This was justice.

Other humans were rushing towards the door.

Oh. No.

With his free hand, he lifted one of the lecterns and flung it over their heads, shattering the fragile wood of the stairs, cutting off the room’s only exit.

No one would escape his judgement.

--

The door of the house was locked.

A little detached home, just off the main road. Windows boarded up. The sign on the yard declaring “SALE PENDING” looked like it had been there for years.

Completely innocuous. Faded yellow paint, quaint turn-of-the-century architecture. Quite a lot of soundproofing, if you knew where to look for it.

And a very solid lock on the oak front door.

Without his power, Crowley was just an average size human, weak from exhaustion.

Or, if necessary, an enormous serpent.

He smashed through the door in one coiled charge, shattering it into splinters. He shook his head and spotted the basement door, ahead to the left, and shot towards it.

He could feel the screams rumbling up the floor and through his stomach.

--

“Stop! Stop!” The angel cocked his head towards the voice, a particular scream that had been going on for some time. Rather insistent, hard to ignore.

Ah, there. The human who thought she could control him. The invisible cord still tied them together.

Divine rage boiled up inside him.

He dropped the broken human, the one who had tried to attack him. He could finish this later.

The one who had tried to bend him to her will cowered away, backed against the wall, still screaming commands, spells in a dozen languages. They had no effect on him now.

Grabbing her arms, he lifted her off the ground.

“Pleasepleasepleaseplease,” she whimpered, tears running down her face.

For some reason, that made him angrier.

The angel pulled her arms, ready to rip them from her body.

--

The basement door had been reinforced even more than the front door. It took three impacts.

Past the shattered wood, a ten-foot drop to the concrete floor, and a crowd of screaming humans trying to flee this new, unexpected threat. And in the darkness beyond—

One pale figure stood in the center of the chaos, glowing with holy light so powerful the demon feared he might burst.

The angel’s wings had been plucked bare, his head shaved. His arms and legs were covered with wounds and symbols. His eyes glowed a solid blue, with something far more frightening than a demon’s berserk rage. And he was about to pull a human to pieces.

In a streak of blackness, Crowley launched himself from the door, across the room, across the broken circles, and slammed into the angel’s side.

The woman fell with a scream. The demon didn’t spare her a glance.

He twisted around, striking the angel again, pushing him back. But the glowing hands just pushed him aside as the angel tried to return to his prey.

The humans were frantically bridging the gap in the stairs with a piece of the shattered door; some simply launched themselves over it, heedless of how the entire structure swayed. All escaping through the now-open door, except for one that lay motionless on the floor, and the woman by the wall.

The angel saw them fleeing and turned, prepared to put a stop to it.

Crowley lunged forward, twisting around his legs, his chest, his arms. The angel struggled, clawed hands scrabbling against smooth scales, but he just constricted, pulling his coils tighter and tighter. When the angel tried to run anyway, he toppled, pinning Crowley to the ground with his weight, but now neither of them could move, not as long as he held on, keeping those struggling arms immobile.

“Ssssssshhh, shhhhhhh,” he hissed. “I’m here, Angel. I’m here. I’m here.”

The angel threw back his head and screamed, shaking the walls and ceiling, the whole building, echoes reaching out across the city.

“I know. I know, Aziraphale. I’ve got you. I’m here.” He nuzzled against the angel’s cheek, even as he twisted, trying to bite the serpent who held him.

“Thank you,” a voice said, and Crowley slowly raised his head, glaring at the human woman. “Whoever you are…whatever you are…”

“No,” he snarled, projecting the voice from his mind rather than trying to force it through his serpent mouth. “I’m not here for you. Look at what you did to my husband! Look at him! I should kill you where you stand.”

“I—I—It wasn’t me!” She pointed desperately at the unmoving man on the floor. No. Moving a little. Breathing. Not dead. “Desmond—he’s in charge—it’s all his operation—”

“You think that lets you off? Every single one of you was involved. Every single—I can see the symbols on your body! He’s harnessed to you even now!”

She wiped her hands guiltily on her shirt, as if that would make a damn bit of difference, then mumbled something that ended the spell. The angel relaxed, a little, but still struggled, snarling like an animal.

“I…I don’t know what happened,” the woman kept talking. “It just went insane. Everything was going to plan, I’ve harnessed dozens of demons—”

“He’s not a demon!” Crowley rubbed his jaw across the angel’s nose, trying to get him to relax, but he just tipped his head back and shouted again, making the whole house tremble. “You stupid fucking humans, you don’t know a thing. But you try anyway, you try, and you meddle, and you push until you break us and then blame us for what happens.”   He glared around the room. Magic supplies. Grimoires. Nothing ever changed.

Well. The webcam was new. Fucking technology.

“But we tested it. It worked.”

“Until it didn’t!” He let his head fall onto his coils, onto his angel’s chest, and watched the struggles slowly weaken. “Understand, I’m not here to save you. I’m here to save him. He’s going to be haunted enough from everything you and your friends did. He shouldn’t have to carry the guilt of your murders, too.” His tongue flicked out, stroking his angel’s jaw. 

“I…” her brow furrowed in confusion. “I’m—”

“Don’t bother.” He turned to pin her with one last glare. “I will never forgive you. If I ever see you again, I will kill you. But right now I’ve got more important things to worry about. Take your friend and get the fuck out of here. Leave your supplies and your notes. And don’t ever. Fucking. Try this. Again.”

She stumbled under the weight of the larger man, his broken legs banging against the ground, the stairs, the unstable bridge of the door as she struggled towards the exit, making him moan in pain. Good.

The humans paused, half out of the basement. “I…what I felt. When I was…was tied to the angel. It was beautiful.”

“Yes. He was.”

“And will it…will he…is this…permanent?”

The angel kicked his legs, twisted his head, trying to bite Crowley again.

“I don’t know. Probably not. Depends what you did to him.”

“I just…” her face was pale, trembling. “I just wanted…”

“I know. You always want something. Go.”

The humans vanished into the darkness. They no longer mattered.

Crowley nudged the tip of his nose against Aziraphale’s chin. “S’alright. I’m here, Angel. You’re safe now. You’re safe.”

--

It wasn’t that Aziraphale woke up, but suddenly, piece by piece, the world started making sense.

He was on the floor.

He was in a great deal of pain—physically, emotionally, and in a more astral sense as well.

Everything was dark, a faint glow flickering here and there.

A great black serpent was wrapped about him, pinning him in place.

“C…” He licked his lips. Another observation: he was very thirsty, more so than he’d ever been. “Crowley?”

“Aziraphale!” His husband’s voice echoed in his mind. “Oh, Someone, I was so scared.” The serpent’s head pressed against his. “I came as fast as I could. I’m sorry, Aziraphale, I’m so—”

“Crowley. They…they hurt me…” He couldn’t make sense of the pain yet, but there had been so much.

“I know, Angel, I know, I’m sorry…”

“They were…going to sell me.”

“Aziraphale—”

“Crowley, they were trying to summon you.” He felt the horror growing, as he imagined his own darling demon trapped with these awful people, and Aziraphale never knowing where he’d gone. “All those things, they were planning—oh, my dear Crowley…”

“Shhhhh. We can talk about me later. Do—I can let you go?”

“No.” He felt something trickling up inside—fear and grief and pain, more than he’d felt before, everything he’d pushed aside in the moment now surging in, threatening to drown him. “Not just yet.”

“Alright.” Crowley rested his head atop Aziraphale’s, a comforting weight. “I’ve got you. I’m here. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Aziraphale relaxed, feeling the warmth of Crowley, his own heat absorbed and reflected back. He felt safe, protected, in his serpent’s coils, little circles of love.

Chapter Text

Crowley didn’t want to linger in the awful basement, but there was too much down there that would be dangerous if discovered, more than he could handle on his own. Fortunately, one of the necromancers had left a mobile in the wreckage.

When Anathema and Newt arrived, Crowley—human-shaped again—was still picking his way through magic ingredients, while Aziraphale rested in the corner, wrapped in a red cloak.

“Here,” Newt said, kneeling next to the angel. “You’re not really either of our sizes, but I think Shadwell’s old jumper should fit you, and Tracy had this skirt. It’s not ideal—”

“I think this will do marvelously,” Aziraphale said with a weak smile. “Thank you, young man.”

“And, ah, Tracy also found a pair of sunglasses…?”

They were extraordinarily pink, but Crowley wore them anyway.

Next, Anathema looked the angel over, Crowley hovering behind, ready to throw her across the room at the first sign of magic. “If I had to guess, it’s this one.” She pointed to a symbol drawn onto Aziraphale’s shoulder with Sharpie, then traced again by a blade, leaving bright red cuts. “Power regulation, basically a surge protector. Whatever she was siphoning off you, it was just different enough from a demon to get, mmmph, major feedback.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Newt pointed out.

“It’s all it takes.” Crowley said, shooing the witch away so he could sit beside his husband again, help him pull the jumper on. “I…I’ve seen them fail for…much less.”

A long pause. Crowley tried not to think about the questions on everyone’s mind. It wasn’t any of their business, except in a way it was now. He did his best to push all those thoughts aside.

“I’m just glad no one was badly hurt,” Aziraphale said with a shaky smile.

“Except you,” Crowley grumbled, not even trying to hide the fact that he was fussing. “And one human had a few broken bones, but as I understand, he really deserved it.” No, that didn’t help. There was a pinch of horror around Aziraphale’s eyes, but he didn’t say anything yet. “Here, something’s missing.” Crowley tugged the rumpled bowtie out of his pocket.

“Oh!” his angel’s face lit up. He quickly looped it around his neck, struggling to tie the knot with trembling fingers. Crowley helped—though his own fingers were just as bad—and eventually there was a crooked tartan bow in place below his chin. “Yes. I feel worlds better now.”

Crowley leaned close and kissed him, gently, almost afraid that Aziraphale would break—or that he would. “Just a bit longer, Angel. Few things to take care of. Then we can go home.”

“Of course, darling.”

Aziraphale was holding together surprisingly well, but Crowley knew. All those times he’d been summoned cut him deep, the pain, the humiliation, piling on in layer after layer until they smothered him in darkness—

He wished he knew what to say. Words were too fucking hard.

Crowley stumbled over to where he’d gathered the shit the summoners had left behind. A sack full of Aziraphale’s beautiful feathers, another of his hair. A cooler with vials of blood, faintly glinting gold. A jar of clear liquid marked Angel Tears that almost made him wish he’d let Aziraphale rip the bastards apart.

“What do you think?”

“Based on the prices we saw, a million pounds, at least,” Newt said, earning a glare from the demon. “Sorry. Just…” He hunched back over the computer, and a few seconds later it was an inert hunk of metal and plastic, any information about angels lost to the universe. He started on the phones next.

“Don’t know about the feathers,” Anathema said, “but for the rest…probably dispose of it all in a river. Running water’s a reliable way to neutralize the power. But there’s still a lot.”

“Is that a problem?”

She squeezed his shoulder, tried to give an encouraging smile. “No. We’ll take care of it.”

“Nhhh.” Crowley looked down at his feet. “Thankyou.”

“Thank you for calling.”

He nodded, turning away. “Mmmmh. We’ll take the feathers. Figure out something to do with them.”

“What about that thing?” Newt gestured to a hollow stone column, a deep red glow inside. “Looks…really dangerous.”

“Less than you might think.” Crowley leaned against the energy well. All the power that had been drained from Aziraphale as he was interrogated was stored in there, a flickering amorphous cloud of light. “They used to just let it dissipate into the air, until someone figured out how to collect it. But it’s inert like this, and I’ve got no idea how to activate it, so I usually just…” he shoved at the stone until it tipped over, clattering against the concrete floor. The light inside fluttered weakly and went out.

“Well. That’s alright then. Last of the electronics,” Newt added, tossing a black-screened phone against the wall. “We’ll need some equipment for all that.” He gestured vaguely to the rings embedded in the floor. “Hammer. Prybar. Maybe acid.”

“Or just demolish the place entirely,” Anathema suggested.

Her boyfriend nodded. “If you can think of a way to convince them this is our property, I’ll call those fellows who did the renovations for us.”

“You don’t have to,” Crowley objected.

“I think I do.” Newt looked at the circles and shuddered. “Unless you were thinking of stealing one of those diggers up the street. Then, by all means…”

“Nnnnnn.” The demon rolled his shoulders until they popped. “Think I’ll leave this one to the contractors.”

“And that just leaves…” Anathema nudged the books with her toe—grimoire, spell book, and notebooks full of dangerous information about angels. “How do you all feel about a bonfire?”

“That sounds lovely,” Aziraphale said, staggering to his feet. “Though I’m afraid my weekend plans involve recovering in bed with my husband. I’m going to be quite busy with that.”

“Ahhhh, shit.” Crowley ran his fingers through his hair. “The bed! I…I de-manifested it. Not going to have the energy to bring it back for a couple days.”

The angel snapped his fingers, frowning. “I appear to be out as well. I may have overdone things a touch.” That would be something to discuss later. Three times, summoners had driven Crowley into a berserk rage, draining him even of reserves of energy he couldn’t normally access. Aziraphale had apparently discovered the angelic equivalent and it was…chilling.

The two humans glanced at each other. “We’ve got a spare room now,” Anathema said. “Looks like it’s about to have its first guests.”

“Oh, no,” Crowley said.

“That sounds lovely!”

“Absolutely not.”

“A weekend in the countryside, just what we need.”

“No, no, no, no.”

“Crowley, dear, what is the matter?”

“I am not riding all the way to Oxfordshire in that disaster he calls a car!”

--

The spare bed was a little smaller than Crowley’s—a fact he made sure to mention several times—but that merely presented a perfect excuse to lie more closely together.

Aziraphale rarely slept, but after the long slow ride back to Oxfordshire, he found he wanted nothing more than to lay there, pressed tight against Crowley’s chest, tucked under his chin, drifting off to the rhythmic stroke of hands on his back.

Unfortunately, sleeping meant nightmares, which meant waking up, shaking, gasping, trying to escape the eyes that still watched him from the darkness at the edge of the circles, weighing him up, calculating his worth. Crowley was there then, too. Holding him close, murmuring and kissing him until the panic passed.

It was after one such episode—late at night, after the humans were long since asleep—that he unfurled his wings for Crowley to inspect.

“Fucking thorough,” the demon mumbled, carefully tracing his fingers across sensitive bare skin.

“Yes, they really were.” Aziraphale ran a hand over his chest; they’d shaved him everywhere, which would have been funny if it didn’t bring tears of humiliation to his eyes.

“It’ll grow back,” Crowley assured him, kissing his shoulder. “All of it. Faster than you expect.”

“I—I know, but…” He leaned back into Crowley’s arms and warmth, feeling the shaking coming on again. “I just felt…so powerless…”

“I know.”

The two words pulled so many reactions out of Aziraphale. Relief at being understood. Horror at the thought of what Crowley must have gone through. Shame that his husband could see how easily they’d broken him.

Fear that Crowley might share his own experiences.

He’d explained a little on the ride to Tadfield, reluctantly, every detail like pulling teeth. Aziraphale should feel honored that Crowley finally trusted him with these secrets. But they weighed on him, more pain to process along with everything else he felt. He'd tried to return the favor, to explain what the humans had done to him. But it hurt, more than he could have believed possible.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, not even sure what he was apologizing for.

Crowley just kissed his arm again, tracing the curves of his skin until his lips met a complex wound, red puffy skin in the shape of a sigil. “These will heal too. Just takes time.”

“Yes.” One horrifying thought rose above the rest. “Could—could someone…reactivate them? Could a human…do that…” He couldn’t even say the word.

“Harness.” Aziraphale flinched. “I’ve never seen it done, once it’s broken.”

“But they could.” His mind ran through the possibilities, reconstructing the spells. “It’s all still there, except—they’d need to weaken my mind again. It only took a few hours. Oh, Lord, they could.”

“I don’t think the humans know that. But, if you want to be safe, we can get a knife, cut an extra line through these marks. It’ll ruin the magic.”

“I don’t know…” He ran his hands across his smooth, bald head and trembled. “I don’t…know…”

“It’s alright.” Crowley settled back onto the bed, pulling Aziraphale as close as he could. “It’s alright. I’m here, Angel. I’m here.”

--

Over breakfast the next morning—Crowley had told the humans some of Aziraphale’s favorites and they’d brought up a plate of eggs and crepes that the angel declared “quite adequate”—Aziraphale started to smile in a way that was almost genuine.

“Sleep must have helped,” Anathema observed, pouring some more tea.

“I suppose it did.” He put down his fork to take a sip. “Oh, goodness, this has a distinctly American taste. How novel.”

Newt raised an eyebrow at that, and Crowley snorted, sitting a little closer to his husband.

“Hmmm. Well.” The witch pursed her lips but let it go. “We can head down to the shop in town today, get you something more suitable to wear.”

“Oh…” Aziraphale’s hand fell away from the tray, smoothing across the jumper. “I…I’m not sure I’m up to that. And, you know, I think it’s growing on me. Very soft and comfortable.”

“And the skirt?” Crowley teased, arm still around Aziraphale, holding him up, although he seemed to be sitting fine on his own.

“That’s rather more your style, but it doesn’t hurt to try something new.” He picked up the fork again—only fumbling a little—and took another bite. “Oh, good Lord.” Aziraphale’s face went pale so quickly, Crowley almost threw the entire breakfast across the room. “My dear, what happened to your car?”

“Hmm? Nothing.”

“If nothing happened, why on Earth didn’t you drive us here?”

“Ahhhh…” Because, Angel, it would have meant nearly an hour that I couldn’t have my arm around you. Two and a half hours, pressed close together in the back seat of that three-wheeled death trap. Barely able to take his eyes off Aziraphale. Almost vibrating with tension, wishing he could say something, do something to make it alright. No, he couldn’t have driven in that state.

Not that he could explain that. Any more than he could explain the horrors he’d experienced, which seemed so much more real, so much more gruesome when the pain was reflected back from Aziraphale’s eyes.

“Was in a rush. Had to leave the Bentley just…sitting in the middle of the street. Probably got a clamp or towed or whatever. I’ll have to look for an impound lot or something.” His lip curled in disgust, both at the thought of his beloved car in such an awful place, and the fact that he couldn’t simply miracle her out. He’d have to wait another day or two at least or risk burning his miracles out entirely again.

“I could take you,” Newt offered, completely failing to read the room. Crowley gave him a death glare, which was slightly less effective through the bright pink glasses. “I mean. Wouldn’t be that long. And we can probably find out where they towed your car to pretty quickly, it’s…rather distinctive.”

“It’s fine,” he all but snarled, arm wrapping protectively around Aziraphale’s waist. “I can wait.”

“Sorry,” the human shrugged. “I was under the impression you cared a lot about your car.”

He couldn’t stop his fist from clenching, his arm from growing tense.

“Darling,” Aziraphale said soothingly, putting his fork down to carefully unwind Crowley’s arm. “I will be fine for an hour or two, and we both know you’ll just mope about that car if you don’t go now.”

It would have been a lot more convincing if Crowley didn’t see the way Aziraphale ate one-handed, left hand still curled around that enormous scar through the palm. “It’s not…” he covered Aziraphale’s hand, wishing he could take away the pain so easily. Wishing he couldn’t imagine—remember—exactly how it felt. “I don’t want to leave you,” he finally admitted, softly, pretending the humans wouldn’t hear.

“It’s not for long.” He smiled bravely, but Crowley could see the pain in his eyes. “And, besides, Anathema promised me a bonfire, didn’t you, dear?”

“Oh, yeah,” she glanced at her boyfriend like it was some kind of joke. “Best way to deal with an unwanted book.”

“Normally, I am quite opposed to the concept,” Aziraphale declared sternly. “But, given the circumstances…an exception may be in order.” He kissed Crowley’s cheek as if the humans weren’t looking right at them. “So, you see? Go get your Bentley. I’ll be quite safe.”

Growling, Crowley surged out of bed. “Right. How fast can that pathetic excuse for a car go?”

The answer turned out to be about twenty-five miles per hour.

“Come on. It’s going to take all bloody day!”

“Just two more hours,” Newt corrected, clearly giving zero fucks. The drive up had been bad enough, but this was beyond pathetic. “Thought we could…you know…talk.”

Crowley glared through the pink lenses, then sank further in his seat, propping his feet on the dashboard.

“I just thought…” he struggled on, stupidly, “…it might be hard for you. Seeing him like this. With, you know, everything that you’ve…”

“You,” every word dripping with venom, “don’t know anything about that, human.”

A whole minute of silence, during which Crowley could swear the scenery outside didn’t move at all.

“I mean. I was sitting right here when you were talking…”

“Then just forget you heard anything! That wasn’t for you!” Shit. Yes, on the ride to Tadfield he’d told Aziraphale about the battle the night before and his search all morning, which had meant revealing a few scraps of his history. And then a few more when Aziraphale asked about his visit to Heaven. And a bit more when the angel tried to recount the worst of his own experiences.

Every word had hurt.

The human shrugged and continued driving, barely reacting to the demon’s anger.

This time the silence stretched for ten minutes, which unfortunately was only the amount of time it took to pass through the next town. Crowley could slither faster than this. He could ride a horse faster than this, even with it fighting him every step of the way.

“You seem…generally fine with all this,” the demon finally observed grudgingly. “Summonings and black-market sales and all that. Figured you’d have a breakdown or something.”

“Oh, I had mine back some time between the aliens and the nuclear war. I’ve just been coasting on general anxiety ever since. Makes things easier.”

Crowley rolled his eyes and looked out the window at the passing fields. He had time to count every fucking blade of grass.

“Look, I’m—I’m not going to talk to you about it. Alright? This isn’t some happy campfire story where we wind up friends. Everything that happened to me is—it’s my bloody business, and no one else’s.”

“And if Aziraphale said the same thing to you, what would you think?”

That he was scared shitless. That he was in too much pain to articulate. That he didn’t trust me enough. “Fuck you.”

“Alright. Also, campfire stories are supposed to be scary, not happy.”

“Depends on what you find scary.” Some sheep in the field sneered at the alleged car. Crowley flipped them off, but they just stared back. “Oh for—we’re not even moving now!”

“There’s a stop sign.” He pointed at a red shape by the road.

“So?”

The human sighed, glanced around, and started rolling again.

Ten more minutes.

“Besides, demons—we just don’t talk about these things. Ever.”

“That sounds very healthy.”

“Shut up.” Crowley slammed his feet down. “Besides. It would give you nightmares like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Already have nightmares. You know. From the whole…apocalypse thing.” Newt shrugged. “Little chamomile before bed works wonders.”

For the next mile, Crowley drummed his fingers on his knee.

“It was eighty-seven years after the Flood. By the way, the Flood, the Ark, all that happened.”

“…Ok…”

“Right. Eighty-seven years later, I was in this city called Enegi, doesn’t matter where. Shitty little mud city, best thing about it was the temple to the snake god. And the beer. And that’s when this twit named Ietetra—there were a lot of us on Earth back then, get over it—Ietetra found me because…demons had been disappearing. And this group of—of nobodies got scared and thought I could protect them.”

“Did you?”

“Told them to fuck off. I had beer to drink and…and you shouldn’t trust a demon to have your back.” He glared at the dashboard ahead of him. He should stop. It wasn’t Newt’s business, wasn’t anyone’s fucking business. All that pain, it was his to deal with, to hold in his mind and bury and…and…

Talking hurt. But, at the same time, it felt good.

“They caught Ietetra that night, probably. In my own damn city, and I only found out years later. Forced them to drink that Almost-Holy Water. It burns us, you know, slowly, from the inside out. I saw it, later—an hour or so of screaming, then the stomach bursts open, everything spilling out, and yet still alive. For a little while. Anyway. Somewhere in there, Ietetra must have told them where to find me, because two weeks later, I came home and…” A quick glance at the driver. “This is where shit gets dark.”

Newt adjusted his glasses. He sat in his seat, relaxed, eyes glued to the road. “Still listening.”

“Right. So. Basics of torture…”

--

“It still seems a pity,” Aziraphale said, tearing out a page from the grimoire with a decently convincing image of Hastur. “So much work went into creating these.”

“I know.” Anathema paused to study a few loose pages detailing complex protective spells unlike either of them had ever seen. “You sure you don’t have a use for any of these?”

“Every spell in this book has only one purpose: to harm and control demons.”

“Mmm. Considering you made an enemy of Hell itself, sounds like something you could use.”

They hesitated beside the roaring fire, pages held over the flames.

Aziraphale’s eyes fell on the scar driven through the center of his palm. It still ached. “Better not,” he decided, dropping his in. “We’ll find our own ways to keep ourselves safe.”

It took hours to get through them all, carefully shredding the more dangerous pages so that there was no chance of accidental survival.

The notebook pages detailing the previous day’s activities were the most difficult. It turned his stomach, to read his treatment described in such cold, impersonal tones, to see pages devoted to what his blood could and couldn’t be used for. And yet, he couldn’t stop himself from looking.

“It’s inhuman, what they did,” Anathema said, stirring the fire with a stick to make sure nothing survived in the ashes.

“Tempting as it is to agree, I’m afraid it was…very human.” Some of the notebooks had colorful covers, short personal notes about weekend plans, reminders to pick up bread or allergy medication. Somehow, that made things even harder. “In my line of work, I often see humanity at its worst. But also, sometimes, its best.” He smiled at Anathema, tossing in a few more pages.

She pressed her lips together, swallowing another comment or question. He appreciated that. Sometimes, not talking was the best thing one could do.

The last to go in was the leader’s notebook. He took the time to memorize the handwriting, and to carefully obliterate the pages containing his true name. He was horrified how easily he’d revealed it. He didn’t have even a hint of his torturers’ identities, and yet they’d learned everything from him.

“Do you think it’s true?” Anathema asked suddenly. “That…that your side taught the humans all this?”

Aziraphale lowered the last page into the flames. “Humans have always claimed similar origins for important knowledge. It’s almost never true. Not really our style, the direct gift of knowledge. Perhaps…” He furrowed his brow, trying to think. “There is always infighting in Hell. It’s entirely possible one group could have revealed the spells, in the hopes of weakening another, and it all got out of hand. Certainly, it’s more the sort of thing they would do, but…” He shook his head. “I’m afraid I’m not as confident in such distinctions as I used to be.”

With a squeal of tires, the Bentley slid to a stop in front of the cottage. Crowley emerged a moment later, running a hand along the car and swaggering like he’d just won a prize, bright pink glasses still on his face.

“And we only have Crowley’s word for it,” Anathema pointed out.

“Yes.” Aziraphale was shocked the demon had shared as much as he did within earshot of the humans. He was certain there must be a great deal more still to tell.

He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. For so long, he had wished Crowley would open up to him about his pain. Still did. And yet, Aziraphale worried he would no longer be capable of hearing it. A few hours in the humans’ circles had filled him with as much horror as he could hold.

And still, Crowley, who had suffered so much more, so much worse, Crowley stood by him. Listened to everything he had to say without flinching. Comforted him without hesitation. And still smiled so beautifully, as if the harrowing day hadn’t even touched him. Aziraphale loved him, so very much.

He stood, smoothing a hand down his thick beige jumper, straightening the wide brightly-flowered skirt, adjusting his bowtie. “If you’ll excuse me.”

He still limped a little, but easily caught up with Crowley by the cottage’s back door. “Don’t know what he was thinking, challenging me to a race.” The demon grinned cockily.

“Probably that you would go easy on him,” Aziraphale chided, leaning against Crowley’s chest. It felt good to be in his arms again, even after only a few hours apart. He took a deep breath, taking in the scents of dust, and petrol, and that wonderful burnt-match smell that followed Crowley wherever he went, so distinctly, uniquely him.

“Ha. Boy’s gotta learn sometime.” He carefully kissed Aziraphale’s cheek. “Ready to go inside?”

--

Anathema had just finished dousing the fire when Newt finally pulled up alongside the cottage.

“About time,” she called, skirts swishing through the grass as she hurried to greet him. “Crowley’s been back over two hours…what?”

Newt hadn’t stepped out of the car, or turned off the engine, or moved at all. He just stared ahead through the windshield, hands at his sides, eyes slightly wider than usual.

“Are you alright?” An illogical prickle of fear started up her spine. “Did—did something happen while you—”

“Nnnnno, nothing happened. Just, um,” he finally blinked. “Better make sure we have plenty of chamomile.”

--

Aziraphale and Crowley watched the sunset through the guest room window, Aziraphale sitting on the edge of the bed, Crowley behind him, arms and legs wrapped around, chin resting on his head. A little protective circle of his own. Better than any magic.

The sky reached its reddest point and began to fade.

“It’s quiet out here,” Aziraphale murmured.

“Quiet’s good?”

“Mmmmh.”

“Yeah.” Crowley’s head moved, brushing his chin across Aziraphale’s smooth scalp. It still felt strange, not having any hair. “Forget what it’s like, when you’re in the city all the time.”

“You like the city, though. All the noise and—and high-tech doo-dads.”

“Oh yeah. Love my doo-dads.” He lowered his head to brush his cheek against Aziraphale’s. “But I love variety, too. Change. And you, most of all.”

“I’ve been thinking…” He fell silent, though, just enjoying the moment in Crowley’s arms.

Outside, the sky turned dark blue, then black, then little lights began to appear.

“Haven’t seen the stars without a miracle in years,” Crowley said. “S’good.”

Aziraphale took a shuddering breath and turned to face his husband. “I’ve been thinking, dear,” he tried again. “What if we…we left the city for a while?”

“Isn’t that what we’re doing?”

“I mean…in our own place. Perhaps in the south. With a garden and a little library. Just spend a year or two resting, recovering…” He felt a chill and pulled closer, burying his face in the curve of Crowley’s neck. Some part of the back of his mind kept expecting to feel that tug again, that pull that would rip him out of Crowley’s arms, leaving him at the mercy of those humans with their pitiless eyes.

Or worse, that this time they would take Crowley…

He didn’t even notice he’d begun shaking, that his breath had started coming quick, until he felt the soft brush of hands across his back again.

“Terribly sorry,” he said, when the darkness had passed. “Don’t know what came over me.”

“I do.” Crowley kissed his head, faint stubble starting to appear here and there. “It’ll pass. Eventually.”

“I just…I can’t stop…being afraid.” He shook his head, burrowing closer. “How do you manage? How can you go about your day knowing any moment…any moment…”

“Shhh, it’s alright.” Crowley’s fingers traced up his back, making the wounds there itch again. “I’m here. I’ve got you. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“Yes, there is!” Aziraphale struggled to pull back, to stand up and face Crowley, though once again his arms and legs had gone stiff and sore. “There is—there’s so much more to be afraid of than I ever imagined, and I can’t—I can’t protect you, I can’t even protect myself, and I—I don’t know what to do!”

“Aziraphale.” Crowley’s hands reached up, trying to cradle his face. “I’m sorry I didn’t keep you safe.”

“Don’t you understand? You shouldn’t have to!” He pulled back, tears stinging his eyes. They hadn’t fallen since the basement. He didn’t know if they’d ever fall again. “I’m—I’m supposed to be the Guardian! I’m supposed to—I was the Principality of Earth! I was supposed to protect everyone, and I can’t even—” He saw Crowley reaching for his hand and pulled back again. “It’s a joke. Protector of nations, and I was—was ensnared by— children! I couldn’t fight back, I couldn’t do anything!” His breath caught, something like a sob. “I couldn’t do anything.” Aziraphale crossed his arms, huddling in on himself. “All that power, and…I couldn’t stop them.”

Crowley stood up slowly, walking forward with his arms out. This time Aziraphale let him approach, let himself be engulfed in those arms. It was only then the angel realized he was shaking again.

“They caught you off-guard. Alright? That’s all it was.” One hand gently rubbed his shoulder. “It happens to everyone. But not again. I’ll teach you how to shield yourself. How to fight it. And if they ever try again, you’ll be ready. I know you can do it.” Crowley swallowed. “They…they haven’t gotten me in seven centuries. And you’re so much stronger.”

“I don’t think I am.” Tears again, hovering, not quite falling.

“Yes, you are. My angel. My beautiful bastard. My Guardian. You’re stronger than all of this.”

Aziraphale lifted his head and kissed Crowley, gently, softly. At first.

His hands drifted up, grasping his husband’s shoulders, and he felt a need begin to grow in him, insistent, undeniable. It came out through his kisses, through the strength of his grip. Through the way he pushed Crowley back towards the bed, shoved him down, pinned his wrists to the mattress.

He had, all at once, an overwhelming need to feel strong. To feel in control.

And Crowley, happily, obliged.

--

Afterwards, they curled up in bed, Aziraphale’s head resting on his shoulder. Crowley could feel the stupid grin on his face, but he didn’t care. “Feel any better?”

“A bit,” Aziraphale said, smiling, finger running up Crowley’s chest. “Though I suppose that was rather uncouth of me.”

Crowley laughed, the way only Aziraphale could make him laugh. “Suppose it was. But, you know, spontaneous.” He picked up his angel’s hand and kissed it. “Spontaneity is always good.”

“Crowley, my dear…” He pushed himself up, looking down at where Crowley lay sprawled across the pillows and blanket, everything in disarray. The demon smiled, ready for whatever came next, but Aziraphale’s eyes had turned serious again. “I’m…I’m dreadfully sorry.”

“What?” He scrambled to sit up, scowling again. “What the Heaven do you have to be sorry for?”

“So much.” Aziraphale blinked, tears filling his eyes again. “All these years, all these centuries, I never knew…never suspected…”

“Hey, no. Don’t start.” He grabbed the angel’s shoulders, trying to ignore the still-fresh wounds under his hands. “This isn’t about me. You’re the one who’s hurt, you’re the one who—don’t even think about me right now.”

“That’s hardly going to work, darling, I always think of you.”

“Fine, look. So you didn’t know. It’s not like I, or—or any demon ever talked about…”

“Yes, but…angels did.” With a sad smile, he brushed his fingers through Crowley’s hair. “All those stories about summoning, and—and control spells, oh, what have the clever humans figured out now.” His eyes clenched shut. “Good Lord, the jokes about…about harnessed demons… And still, I never imagined—”

“Don’t worry about that, you—just focus on yourself. On getting better.”

“How can I? Knowing everything...everything they did…”

“Angel…” Crowley struggled to find something to say, some way to make it better, but Aziraphale pressed fingers to his lips.

“You want me to focus on myself. Then tell me.” His mouth set in a stubborn line. “Are my wounds going to hurt forever?”

Crowley took the hand, kissed the scar on Aziraphale’s palm. “Mmmmh. For a while. And after that, you’ll feel…twinges. When you’re tired, mostly.”

“And,” a flicker of pain across his brow, “how long will I continue to have these dreams where that…that man watches me from the edge of the circle?”

“I…a…very long time.”

“Four thousand years from now, will I still remember how it felt to have my… myself drained away, a little at a time?”

“Yes.” Crowley leaned back against the headboard, tipping his head to stare at the ceiling. “And you—you’ll never forget how it felt when…their hold broke, and you lost control…”

“Now tell me, how am I supposed to focus on myself, when…when the one I love…is feeling every pain, a hundred times worse? How can you ask me to be so selfish?”

A long sigh. “Aziraphale. Do you… want me to talk about my…experiences?”

The angel’s mouth hung open for a moment, and then he collapsed on himself, head hanging in shame. “No. No, I—I can’t. For so long I hoped…but if I hear another word, another—I’m so, so sorry. I rather think—think it would…break me.”

“It’s alright,” Crowley started.

“It’s not alright! I’m your husband! I’m an angel! And worse, I—I know the pain you’re in, because I feel it too, and it’s horrible. And yours must be so much worse. Only I know that it—it won’t get better if it isn’t shared, if we don’t…but I can’t. I can’t carry any of your pain, and, Lord help me, I will not add my burden to yours.”

“Well, um, as far as me…talking…” he laughed, short and harsh. “That’s…kind of taken care of.”

Really, at first, he’d just wanted to see if he could shock the human into some kind of reaction. At least, that’s what he told himself. Couple gruesome stories, get him to cry out in disgust, then find some way to lord it over him.

Except, it turned out, Newt was a very good listener.

And in the course of the two-hour drive, it was Crowley who went through reactions. All of them. Ranting anger, dark humor, incoherent screaming, some tears, then back around again for more of each.

It hadn’t cured him. Newt couldn’t have understood a fraction of the things he’d said, which kind of dulled the benefit. And yet, it had left him feeling— refreshed, somehow. Cleaned. Invigorated.

Aziraphale had been right. Sharing the pain had eased it, for a little while at least.

“Look, Angel,” he pulled Aziraphale into his arms again. Really, they should just stay this way forever. Much more convenient. “It’s not as simple as who has more pain, who had…whatever. My wounds are centuries old. Yours are still fresh. And you can’t…you can’t take care of someone else when you’re bleeding out. Trust me, I know.” Another kiss to the top of Aziraphale’s head, smooth skin and stubble. It will grow back soon, he reminded himself. “And, um, let’s just say I’ve had my emotional purge. I’m good for a bit. So you can stop worrying about me, yeah?”

“I’m fairly certain that’s one thing I can’t do.” He settled his head onto Crowley’s chest. “I’m sorry you…you didn’t think you could tell me,” Aziraphale started.

“What? No! No, it wasn’t…damn it, Angel, it’s nothing to do with you, I just…the words…I don’t know what to say, where to begin…”

But it was more than that. It was easier, in a way, to be afraid, to hide from himself, to fight the nightmares alone in a cave, shivering through panic after panic, than to admit his weakness before the one being he cared for.

Somewhere, at the core of a thousand excuses, that fear drove him. Fear of being seen, being known. Fear of being pitied. Fear of losing his angel, but at the same time, fear of being accepted.

“Aziraphale…there’s so much darkness in me. From this. From Hell. From a thousand other things, and I just…that’s not what I want for you. For us.” He sighed. “But if I had told you, none of this shit would have happened. Probably, I dunno. I just know…you should never have had to see any of it.”

“You shouldn’t have, either.” Aziraphale’s hand slid into his. “There’s darkness in me, too, you know. Always has been, my love, and…I would give anything to shield you from that. But, perhaps…if we face it together…we don’t have to be afraid.”

“I’m not.” Crowley’s right hand slid across Aziraphale’s left, pressing their palms together, a fresh scar against an ancient one. “Long as you’re here, I’m not afraid.”

He kissed the angel’s forehead, and let himself sink into that wonderful healing warmth. He would be able to tell, Crowley realized. Having said the words once, they no longer seemed quite so terrifying, so shameful. Someday, they would be able to sit and talk through all their dark pasts together, and one by one put those fears to rest.

But for now, he could focus his full attention on Aziraphale.

“So. Cottage in the south?”

“Oh,” an embarrassed wriggle. “It was just a—a foolish fancy.”

“Pity. I kind of like the idea. Couple years away from it all, time to just…figure ourselves out.”

“It would be a change, but I…I’m sure we could do that from London.”

“No one to bother us, no strangers, no customers,” Crowley continued, feeling the idea grow on him. “No stupid questions or prying eyes. Just quiet evenings in the garden with the stars.”

“Picnics in the meadows.”

“Maybe a walk along the seashore.”

“And flowers?”

“Loads of flowers. Many colors as you like. Attract those butterflies, all majestic and shit.” The demon grinned. “And ducks, whole pond full of ducks. And a bird bath for those bouncy little birds you like. And—”

He had plenty more ideas, but they were cut off by Aziraphale’s lips, fierce and passionate again. “Let’s do it,” the angel said, sliding his legs to straddle Crowley’s stomach. “You, me, and—and the South Downs. A little cottage in the wilderness.” He leaned down for another kiss.

“Sounds goddamn perfect.” His arms came up to wrap around Aziraphale, but the angel gently pushed them back down.

“Sorry, dear. I seem to still have some things to, ah…” He picked up his discarded bowtie and started wrapping it around Crowley’s wrists. “What do you say we try something new?”

Crowley watched Aziraphale tie his hands to the bedpost. “Oh, fuck yeah.”

--

“Holy shit, do they ever sleep?” Anathema’s voice cut across his reverie.

“Hmm? What?” Newt looked up from the mug of tea he’d been staring at for at least twenty minutes. He followed her eyes in the direction of the guest bedroom upstairs, and heard the sounds beginning to build again. “Oh. Yes, suppose that is a bit extreme.”

“A bit?” She cringed as the banging started, clearly half expecting something to crash through the ceiling into their living room.

“I mean. They have had a rough time,” he pointed out diplomatically, trying to ignore any and all mental images associated with such a statement.

The walls began to echo with the sound of demonic joy.

“Right. I’m going for a walk.” Anathema picked up her coat with one hand and held out the other. “A very long walk, if you care to join me.”

Newt looked at his chamomile again. “You know what? That sounds lovely.”

Chapter Text

Three days after the demon invaded Heaven—and had been summarily thrown out—Gabriel began to notice something.

There was another one, up ahead—a group of angels congregating. No one rushing off to their next assignment, no one filling out any sort of paperwork. They simply clutched their memos in their hands and… talked to each other, a little huddled circle of haloes.

He hurried up to the group, clapping his hands. “Good to see everyone so excited this morning. What are we all planning? Anything fun?”

Immediately, the group began to disperse, with mutters of no, sir and quite busy, sir and very fun filing to do, sir. One angel in particular stood out.

“Dabriel,” he called. “I’ve been seeing you a lot lately.”

“Oh, you know. A messenger’s work is never done. Always something new to share.”

“Really. Only I thought you were a scribe.”

The angel shrugged, with a smile that didn’t reach their eyes. “You understand, sir. We all do what we must, when the situation calls for it.”

Dabriel vanished around a corner.

It’s nothing, Gabriel thought, continuing on his walk. Perhaps a bit of gossip, but that always dies down. Nothing they can prove. Nothing to substantiate it. Besides, it was justified. Everything we did was justified, in the name of winning the War.

Another circle up ahead. One glance at Gabriel and they dispersed, vanishing off to their duties.

But not before giving him looks that went far beyond disrespectful.

--

Rhoda sat by Desmond’s bed in the hospital for the better part of a week.

He’d wake up on occasion, but didn’t say much. A few broken limbs. Few ruptured organs. He’d live, but it would be a while before he was happy about it.

Others came in to visit. They’d eventually managed to get back into the basement to find everything gone and destroyed, all their equipment, everything they’d collected. Even the concrete floor had been torn apart and re-poured.

A few talked about starting again, but not with a lot of confidence.

“You think it’s worth it?” someone muttered as the group left again, Desmond having fallen back asleep under the powerful painkillers. “We can barely reconstruct one summoning ritual between us.”

“Gotta be backup notes somewhere.”

“Or—just think. Take our cuts and go. How much richer you need to be?”

Rhoda ignored them all.

Once the room was empty—just her and Desmond—she reached into her pocket and pulled it out. A small sphere of glowing red light.

Pure angelic power.

Not much, though, only as much as she could grab while the demon was distracted.

Demon. A fucking angel and a demon. Seemed obvious, once she’d had a chance to think over everything the angel said. Shouldn’t have gotten so distracted by the immediate puzzle.

Still. One handful of angelic power. She could do a lot with that.

She could heal Desmond completely, maybe half the hospital if she planned it right.

She could sell it. Only bit of free angelic power in the world. She could name her price.

She could keep it, let it settle into her soul, see how long that amazing feeling of bliss lasted.

Or…

The ball of power rolled from one finger to the next, like a coin trick, across the palm, around the back of the hand. She could experiment on it. Test out summoning and containment and compulsion spells. See what went wrong. Try again.

It would be a long process. She’d lost all her notes. But Rhoda had a good memory, an inquisitive mind, and a whole lot of patience.

And nothing had ever been gained by giving up at the first sign of resistance.

Except. What if it truly was impossible to control an angel? That beautiful wave of power destined to destroy anyone who touched it.

She rolled it across her knuckles one more time.

There was another possibility. An angel and a demon together. Powers twined about each other, like copper wire around a magnet. Would it be more stable? Or more dangerous?

“Nhh,” a grunt from the bed. Rhoda’s bit of light vanished, and she looked up to find Desmond—awake, eyes clearer than they’d been in days. “Well, that was a bust. We were so…goddamn… close. The hell are we supposed to do now?”

Rhoda ran her fingers across the ball of power and considered.

--

Two and a half weeks after their houseguests left, a letter arrived at Jasmine Cottage.

“That was quick,” Anathema said, reading it over breakfast.

“Mmmmh?” Newt wrapped his arms around her, peering over her shoulder. A sheet of very fine paper with an A.Z. Fell & Co. header, filled with the scrawling letters of a demon trying very hard to pretend he’d never heard of penmanship.

Nerds:

Gone to the South Downs. Be back in 1-50 years.

Angel wants you to stop by the shop every once in a while and talk to the books or whatever. Left instructions on his desk. Here are the keys, and some money for petrol and such. Parties are fine if you clean up, but absolutely no customers.

Also the keys to my flat. Do whatever, just don’t touch the artwork.

AJC

PS—Thanks. You know what for.

PPS—The plants I left behind know what they did. Don’t trust a word they say.

“Huh. Guess their magic stuff must be working again.”

“Either that or they know a very good Real Es—oh stars.” She pulled out a wad of money. “Is this as much as it looks like?”

“I…don’t think I can count that high.” Newt shuffled through the notes quickly. “I don’t need this much petrol. I don’t think the planet needs this much.”

“Well. At least you can put off the job search a…bit longer.” She raked her fingers through her hair, shaking her head. “I mean, I’ve got money, my Mom’s got money, but that’s…that’s a lot.”

Obviously, it was some sort of mistake. A mix-up in the exchange rate, a slipped decimal point, something.

One part of Newt’s mind insisted they should find a way to set it right. The other part was shrugging helplessly and pointing out that if the angel and demon didn’t want to be found, it would be rude to contact them over a banking error.

“Hang on, there’s something else.” Anathema pulled out a small card. “It’s…a…reservation at the Ritz. For a wedding. Our wedding.”

“But…we don’t even have a date!”

“It’s an open reservation. Do they do that?”

The back simply read, in far neater handwriting:

On me.

All my love,

A

“Huh.” Anathema blinked several times. “Guess I better propose.”

“I’ll go find you a fiance.”

“Nuh-uh. Already got one.” She snagged the back of his dressing gown and pulled him into her lap, laughing, and kissed him warmly. “They’ll be ok, right? I mean, an angel and a demon…”

“Dunno…” Newt put his arms around her shoulders, resting his head against hers. They both knew he hadn’t slept well in weeks, and he’d only heard what Crowley had been through. “But. They’ve made a start. That’s the important thing, right?”

“Yeah. Wish we could have helped more. Maybe...”

“Oh, no.” He tried to get away, but Anathema held him in place. “I was hoping for a break at least until Christmas.”

“No promises. But, I was thinking…” She reached up to adjust her glasses, then realized they were still upstairs beside the bed, and quickly wrapped her arm around Newt again where it belonged. “I know plenty of other witches, all over the place. Experts in just about everything but demon summoning. Maybe, if we all work together, we can come up with something better than ‘misdirection’ and ‘hoping it goes away.’ Maybe we can stop this from happening again.”

“I’m sure you can.” He kissed her, the faint taste of coffee on her lips. “You’re brilliant enough.”

“You’re not bad yourself. But before that, what do you say to a trip to London this weekend?” A teasing grin. “Find out if this Ritz place is any good.”

Newt considered this carefully. “Yeeesss. But if those plants turn out to be weird, let’s just get a hotel.”

--

Aziraphale and Crowley sat in their new back garden, swing rocking gently in the sunset breeze.

“Yeah,” Crowley grunted, an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders. “This was a good idea.”

“You can really breathe out here.” The angel smiled, resting against his husband.

“I mean, you can breathe anywhere about the same. Even underwater.” Crowley kissed the top of his head, short white hair not quite long enough to curl yet. “But yeah. I get your point.”

They watched the sky change colors, the flowers close up, the birds settling in for the night while the bats began their hunt. The stars overhead, appearing one by one, seemed larger, more real than the ones Crowley had miracled into the windows of his flat.

“So, sticking with the fuzzy jumpers?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale smoothed his hands down the argyle-wool-monstrosity that perfectly replicated the colors of his favorite tartan. “Yes, I think it suits me. Pity about the glasses, I thought they looked quite good on you.”

“Everything looks good on me.” Crowley pulled off his glasses—black, not pink—and dropped to rest his head in Aziraphale’s lap. The view made him smile. His angel in a circle of constellations. All his favorite things in one place.

“You sure you won’t be more comfortable inside?” Aziraphale asked.

“Nah. You’re here. That’s the thing that counts.” He could already feel it, the angelic aura rolling in waves, layers of warmth, of protection, of healing. Aziraphale’s fingers, teasing their way through his hair. Everything he could want. “How are you feeling?”

“Simply wonderful,” though there was still something of the haunted look in his eyes.

Crowley gently took Aziraphale’s left hand, pressing it to his own right palm. The rough scar across the angel’s hand reflecting one on his own. The skin had healed hundreds of years ago, but he still felt it in his soul.

It wasn’t something he’d ever wanted to share with Aziraphale. But he did, mirror image. Same wound, same trauma, same nightmares now, too.

When Crowley woke in the night, reaching, clinging to the Heavenly warmth beside him, Aziraphale no longer had to wonder what he had dreamt.

When Aziraphale froze, clutching a chair or a door frame, breath coming quicker and quicker, Crowley never had to ask what was wrong.

It made things…not easier, because nothing about it was easy. But there was a seamlessness to how they went about their day, supporting each other. Building up Aziraphale’s confidence. Breaking down Crowley’s walls.

Finding their way out of the darkness.

“What is it, dearest?” The fingers in his hair paused, worried.

“Just thinking.” Talking still wasn’t easy, but he kept at it, a bit at a time. They both did. “We share everything now.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale twined their fingers together, giving Crowley’s hand a squeeze. “I suppose that truly makes it Our Side.”

“Nnnh. It isn’t what I wanted.” He wriggled a bit, pressing against Aziraphale’s soft middle. “I wanted Our Side to mean…softness. Warmth. Bottles of wine by the fire. Picnics and autumn leaves and long mornings in bed. All that shit you like.” But he smiled as he said it. “It’s what you deserve.”

“What we deserve.” Aziraphale kissed his hand. “And we have all that here. Every day with you is a miracle, the most wondrous I’ve ever beheld. To wake beside you in our bed, walk with you in our garden, burn dinner together in our kitchen.” He chuckled. “Yes, we have our darkness, but it doesn’t erase the beauty we share.”

“Still, I wish…”

“I know.” He pressed their twined fingers to his cheek. “One day, we will put that pain to rest, and all that will remain is peace and happiness, for as long as we like. And until then…” He tugged Crowley’s hand and the demon sat up, feeling two strong, soft arms wrap around him, twining his own across Aziraphale’s back. Circles of love, bound together, unbroken.

“Until then,” Crowley murmured, “I have all I need, right here.”

“As do I, my love.”