Chapter Text
Aziraphale was hiding something. Crowley was sure of it.
For someone so legendarily bad at acting, the angel was doing remarkably well at hiding whatever it was. Crowley thought if it were anyone but him, they wouldn’t have even noticed anything amiss.
Unfortunately for Aziraphale, Crowley had made a lifelong study of him and his habits, and Crowley had lived for a very long time.
The demon cottoned on at once to the laughs with manic cutting-edges, the way Aziraphale couldn’t seem to help picking at his buttons or straightening his perpetually crooked bowtie. His hands patted around his pockets before flying away. He fiddled with the ring on his pinky finger, and then the golden chain of his pocket watch.
“Alright, Aziraphale?” Crowley asked in a deliberately offhanded way once he could meet Aziraphale’s fidgeting with silence no longer. They were strolling through the park now.
The sun was setting, and the way was not silent. A few sparrows twittered drearily in the branches of a tree overhead and there was violin music, somewhere. A busker down the lane had plugged a violin into an amp. Crowley hadn’t even known violins could be plugged into amps, but he wasn’t complaining. The song wasn’t something he recognized, some modern poppy love ballad or other. Something new, Crowley thought.
Aziraphale looked surprised at the question, then went wide-eyed. “Alright? Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I be alright? Of all the silly things to ask.” Then Aziraphale giggled, a high-pitched sound like the peal of a bell that Crowley knew for a fact he only produced when he was lying.
Crowley arched a single incredulous brow. “Silly. Mhm.” The direct approach rarely worked on Aziraphale anyway. He’d have to be wilier than that. “Say, angel,” he began nonchalantly. “Do you think I could tempt you to dinner?”
Aziraphale brightened, as Crowley had hoped he would, and he seized upon this new subject like a lifeline. “Dinner does sound like a marvelous idea. What were you thinking?”
“Anywhere you want. It’s always up to you, you know that.” The words came out soft and heavier than he’d intended, lead wrapped in red velvet.
“Oh, yes, of course.” Aziraphale agreed. His expression gentled into something so soft and indulgent it really had no right being there. Not over something as simple as this. Not over Crowley. “We could go to Bocca di Lupo? Or, no, maybe that lovely little Turkish place, the one we went to last March?” Aziraphale mused further, oblivious to the path Crowley’s thoughts had taken.
Crowley also tried to become oblivious to the path his thoughts had taken. He could tear himself to shreds later when he was safely ensconced within his flat, but for now he had an angel to pamper. “Turkish it is,” he said, gesturing to the kerb with a suitably grandiose sweep of his hand. The Bentley awaited, gleaming and perfect like new.
The drive was quick, a table for two miraculously available at the restaurant. Crowley pulled out Aziraphale’s chair, which made the angel beam at him. “Thank you, my dear,” he said. Crowley looked away, hoping he wouldn’t see the flush crawling up his face and colouring the tips of his ears.
Aziraphale hemmed and hawed over the menu for a little while. “I’ll have to have mercimek to start, and, oh, it’s been ever so long since I’ve had kabab, but the manti. Do you remember manti?”
“Mm, yeah. Thirteenth century, wasn’t it? Mongol thing. Dumplings.”
“Well, yes, I suppose rather a lot of places had them, but the ones in Anatolia—or was it the Osmanlı Empire by then?—were very tiny, perfectly bite-sized, and served with garlic yoghurt.”
“That does sound good,” Crowley dutifully agreed. He held no firm opinions on food. It was the alcohol that held his attention more than anything. Well, anything except Aziraphale.
Aziraphale was really on a roll now, waxing poetic about yaprak sarma—lamb and yoghurt wrapped in vine leaves—and then baba ghanoush, a charred aubergine mash with garlic, olive oil, and a tart bite of lemon juice. When the waiter came to take their orders, Aziraphale looked conflicted. He ordered a little bowl of mercimek straight off, of course, but as to what else, well… he gave Crowley a look, lips pursed in pleading little moue. “Which one do you think we should get?”
Crowley waved an airy hand and asked for a half order of both of them. He barely glanced at the wine menu before ordering the most expensive bottle in the place, a red Chateau Musar he hoped would be passable. When Aziraphale thanked him for his thoughtfulness, Crowley hissed half-heartedly in response.
With the promise of food on the way, the tension in Aziraphale’s shoulders finally eased. Food brought memory with it, always, and this was one of the things Aziraphale loved best about London. So much memory, so many cultures intersecting right outside his door. He could have Turkish coffee one day, Argentinian Malbec the next, and Japanese sake the day after that without even having to miracle himself out of the country.
The port city of Istanbul[1] in particular had been a thriving centre of commerce for centuries, outlasting multiple empires, and it was still alive, still thriving. Aziraphale and Crowley each had their fair share of assignments there over the years, so there was much to bicker about: whether Caliph So-and-So had gone Upstairs or Down, which century this or that war had happened in, who had pulled off the most elaborate job in such-and-such city.
The wine was good and warmed Crowley’s bones, made him loose and languid. While Aziraphale tended to forget himself when drunk, his smiles brighter and longer lasting than usual, Crowley often went very still, drinking in the angel’s every movement just as intently as the wine. Tonight was one of those nights, where he glutted on Aziraphale’s gluttony, savored every pleased sigh and greasy smack of lips.
Eventually, once the bottle had been drained[2], the waiter circled around to ask if they’d like any dessert. Crowley said they would, and Aziraphale quietly ordered what he wanted.
A few minutes later, the waiter brought out a slice of künefe, a sweet stringy cheese pastry with pistachios, and set it on the table between them. Crowley slid it further across the table toward the angel, preening a bit under the glowing look he received in return.
"Thank you, my dear." Aziraphale wiggled happily in his seat before scooping some up onto his fork. Then he hesitated. A frown overtook his face.
"Something wrong?" asked Crowley, fully prepared to miracle fresh künefe straight from Turkey if he had to.
Aziraphale started. The frown was carefully smoothed away. "Not as such, no. I was just wondering, would you like the first bite?"
"Uh," Crowley stuttered. Aziraphale offered the künefe hesitantly, and for a moment Crowley was terrified—hopeful?—that he would try to feed him right there at the table. But no, Aziraphale handed him the stem of the fork, and their fingers brushed together. Crowley shivered, then shoved the bite of pastry into his mouth. He chewed once, then swallowed the lot mostly whole, as he did with all food.
Aziraphale smiled at him as he took the fork back. "How was it?"
"Good," said Crowley. He'd barely been able to taste it.
Aziraphale had to have known this. They’d talked about his lack of proper tastebuds before, loads of times. "I’m glad," he replied anyway.
Crowley shrugged, a little alarmed when Aziraphale leaned toward him. "Crowley…" he began tentatively. Today his eyes were a deep midnight green, the same bruised color of the sky before a tornado touched down from the clouds. "I, ah, I've been meaning to ask you something."
“Oh?” It was millennia of practice that ensured Crowley barely stirred from his slouch, though he couldn’t stop the flick of his tongue to taste the air. It smelled like fear, and it was coming from Aziraphale. It made something more primal in him want to stalk and prowl and protect to ward off the cause of it. “What’s up?”
“Yes. You, ah. You’re very dear to me. You do know that, don’t you?” Aziraphale began.
“Mng.” Leaning back in his seat, Crowley sipped at his wine in a very cool and stylish way, and he thought very cool and stylish thoughts.[3]
“And I, well, I’m aware you might think me a little silly, but I… I simply have to…” he fiddled more with his waistcoat, buttoning and unbuttoning the buttons, then tugging at its pockets with his thumbs. “I want—” Aziraphale huffed, annoyed with himself.
“Take your time, angel,” Crowley reassured him. He thought about reaching out, covering the angel’s hand with his own, but held back. Aziraphale was in a strange enough mood already without adding physical contact to the mix.
“Do you want another bite?” Aziraphale finished desperately, brandishing a new forkful of künefe at him.
Crowley turned it aside. There was an eagerness blooming in his chest; the heart of his corporation had sped up considerably. “No, ta. You were saying something?”
Aziraphale looked at him then, meeting his eyes despite the dark sunglasses. His lips were parted, his body tense like it had been stalled by the pause of the mouth. Then, just when Crowley thought he’d finally come out with it, he sighed and bit into the pastry with none of his prior gusto. “It’s nothing, my dear. Just a whim.”
Crowley’s teeth clicked together in barely concealed frustration. Whatever it was, he was certain it had to do with the thing Aziraphale had been hiding for the past few weeks.
It was fine though, or it would be. They had eternity for Crowley to wheedle and cajole the answer out of him. It was how they’d always done things, and there was no reason to assume preventing the literal end of the world would be enough to change them.
That didn’t make Crowley want to grab Aziraphale by the lapels and give him a firm shake any less, though.
The rest of the meal was eaten in near silence, Aziraphale’s feeble attempts at further conversation dying quickly. He left the künefe only half finished, which was unheard of. Crowley miracled the rest of it, plate and cutlery and all, to the lap of someone who was hungry.
Aziraphale gave him a frightfully adoring look at that, full of horrible things like feelings, and patted him on the elbow.
“That was stealing, angel. Demonic work.”
“Darling, we’d already paid for the food.”
“Had we?” ‘Darling?’ he wondered in the privacy of his own mind. Aziraphale had called him that before, a few times now, but it never failed to make him want to miracle himself across the country to clear his head a minute.
Aziraphale rolled his eyes. The quiet zing of a miracle rushed over Crowley’s skin. The bill was paid, and the waiter generously tipped. “There we are.”
“Still stealing, though.” At Aziraphale’s raised eyebrows, Crowley explained. “They’ll never get that plate back.”
“I see. Such a dreadful fiend.”
“Yeah. Come on, angel. Let’s go home.”
It wasn’t until they were in the Bentley that Crowley realized he had said the word ‘home’ and meant the bookshop rather than his own flat. Thinking about it a little more, he realized that he didn’t quite mean the bookshop either. He thought, briefly, that he could feel at home anywhere so long as Aziraphale was with him and happy to be there.
Once he’d parked in front of the shop, Crowley got out and opened Aziraphale’s door for him, helped him upright. Offering a wan smile, the angel brushed off his jacket and drifted over to the shop’s entrance.
Crowley leaned coolly against the Bentley’s bonnet; his legs crossed at the knee. He waited for Aziraphale to invite him inside, as he had after every shared dinner since the Apocalypse.
He didn’t. His hand was on the doorknob. His back was to Crowley.
“Fancy a nightcap, angel?” Crowley asked, trying not to sound too panicked.[4]
“No, Crowley. Not tonight. I’ve… Oh, I need to think.”
“Think. Sure. Um. I’ll be back tomorrow?” The end tipped up into a question, though it shouldn’t have been one. There should never be any doubt that Crowley would be allowed in Aziraphale's life, whatever form that took.
Aziraphale turned to face him, though half his face was cast in shadow. “Mind how you go, dear.”
Then the bookshop door opened, the little bell jingling as it swung in, and Aziraphale withdrew into the shop. Crowley was left alone on the street, shut out again, when they were supposed to be in this together now. Our side. Did that really not mean anything to the angel?
With an exaggerated shrug, Crowley got back in the Bentley and drove away. He was used to rolling with the punches, pretending nothing hurt and beating back anything that said otherwise. He’d be alright. Aziraphale, though, Aziraphale he was worried about.
Gritting his teeth, Crowley made up his mind to show up first thing in the morning[5] with a box of pastries, maybe some fruit. Would flowers be too much? Probably, but his daffodils were blooming, and it’d be a shame for them to just wilt without being enjoyed by someone.
Usually, after a spat, they went on with their lives like it hadn’t happened. Eternity was longer and lonelier when one held grudges against their equally long-lived companion. That wasn’t to say they didn’t argue, but they knew when to call it a draw.
This, though, wasn’t like their many petty arguments. Aziraphale was legitimately bothered by something, apparently enough to start pushing Crowley away. It made the demon antsy, reminded him too much of certain other arguments he’d rather forget altogether.
He couldn’t let Aziraphale slip back into bad habits. Tomorrow morning, armed with many pastries, he’d start the wheedling and cajoling and he wouldn’t let up until the angel came out with what was bothering him.
Inside the shop, Aziraphale stood by his desk, staring vacantly down at the clutter of books and letters and biscuit wrappers. His fingers had found their way to his waistcoat pocket again. Now they slipped inside, toyed with the smooth metal ring there. It was gold, engraved with feathers in the shape of a sweeping wing. He’d hoped that by now it would be on Crowley’s finger.
It didn’t matter. They spent all their time together anyway, enjoying each other’s company, bickering and laughing and existing silently together. The damnable ring didn’t matter, except that it did.
He needed to tell Crowley how he felt. He wanted to offer Crowley everything he had. Crowley was his best friend, his confidante, the greatest adversary anyone could hope for.
But Crowley was also reckless, cool, and fast. He slithered through the decades with a serpent’s ease, donning and doffing new skins as he saw fit. Rarely was he still, ever impatient, always raring to move on to whatever bright and loud thing had temporarily caught his attention.
Aziraphale loved him more than anything.
He also knew he’d never be able to keep up. And, yes, while he could continue to ask Crowley to slow down for him, that simply wasn’t fair to the demon. Aziraphale, with his dragon’s hoard in London, his one step forward two steps back snail’s pace, how could he ask Crowley to permanently tether himself, now and forever, to someone like that?
‘We’re on our own side, angel. Always have been,’ Aziraphale could almost hear Crowley’s voice, gently chiding. This was the crux of it, really. One of Aziraphale’s greatest fears[6] was that Crowley would eventually come to regret forming this bond with him, that eventually he would draw away from Aziraphale, leave him to puzzle out what exactly he’d done wrong. One day, 'our side' might no longer be enough.
Aziraphale shook his head, clearing out the cobwebs. That didn’t even make logical sense. Crowley wasn’t anything like Heaven. To presume otherwise was to do Crowley the utmost disservice, and to give Heaven more credit than they deserved.
Aziraphale wasn’t blind, after all. He’d known Crowley had cared for him for quite some time. And tonight, he’d wanted to finally acknowledge that, meet millennia of the demon’s kindnesses with one sweeping romantic gesture of his own. It was only that, every time he tried to put his feelings into words, there never seemed to be enough of them.
The whole thing was proving rather troublesome.
But maybe… maybe his proposal didn’t have to be perfect. Maybe he didn’t have to wax poetic for minutes on end about his love for Crowley, or show him his elaborate multi-page graphic organizer listing reasons why it would be mutually beneficial for them to permanently reside in the same domicile.[7]
“Perhaps…” Aziraphale zeroed in on his desk phone. His hand hovered over the rotary dial. He should call Crowley’s mobile now, get everything straightened out. The poor dear had seemed so worried for him tonight, and then what had Aziraphale done? Shut him out, drawn away, exactly what he’d feared Crowley would eventually do to him.
Exactly what Aziraphale had always done to him.
Aziraphale needed to do it. He needed to put his heart in Crowley’s hands and trust him not to do it harm. “I trust you. I do,” he murmured aloud, dialling the area code of Crowley’s mobile. It had an extra number at the start, one which did not exist in any human understanding.
Halfway through dialling, Aziraphale heard a creak somewhere in the depths of the shop almost like the heavy fall of a boot. He paused, squinting into the darkness. “Hello?” he called out. Silence was all that answered him. Aziraphale frowned, scolding himself for being so paranoid. He couldn’t help punching the numbers in a little faster.
Not fast enough.
Before he’d turned the last number into place on the dial, the line went dead. A high droning tone filled the room. “What on Earth…?” he trailed off, staring at the receiver in confusion. His phone had never done this before.
Then a voice called out to him from the gloom, one he’d last heard in the depths of Hell and had wished never to hear again. Michael stood now in the dim light of his shop. They seemed to slice through the air where they stood, deeper and brighter and sharper than anything of earthly origin. It hurt to look at them.
“Aziraphale,” they did not smile. “It’s been too long.”
His spine straightened. He refused to be soft any longer, not in the face of Heaven. Holy flame sparked in his eyes, bright enough to scorch a human had they looked upon him then. “Leave me be, Michael. We had an agreement.”
“You and Heaven had an agreement, perhaps. This is, shall we say, an extra-departmental effort.”
“Extra-departmental?” That couldn’t be good.
“Quite,” they inclined their head. “Will you come with me quietly, or do you plan to make a fuss?”
Slowly, Aziraphale set the phone down. It clicked into place in its cradle. “I’d rather not go at all, thank you,” he said stiffly. He wished, not for the first time in his long life, that he was still in possession of his flaming sword. Instead, his fingers wrapped around the engraved hilt of his letter opener. Lord Byron had gifted it to him.
Michael’s lip curled. “That wasn’t an option on the table, but if that’s how you’d prefer to do this…. Take care of him.” They were looking at something over Aziraphale’s shoulder.
No, not something. Someone. A putrid stench had filled the air, not as unfamiliar as Aziraphale might have wished. This, too, he recognized from Hell. Aziraphale felt a hand clap down hard on his shoulder, and then he was in motion, whipping around and plunging the letter opener into his assailant’s neck at the junction of his shoulder.
The demon screamed with rage, stumbling back a few steps as he ripped the little knife out of him.
Hastur, Duke of Hell.
The letter opener had barely done any damage to Hastur, though black blood spurted gratifyingly from the wound. It had served its purpose, distracted him long enough for Aziraphale to grab the neck of the bottle of Chardonnay he had intended to share with Crowley tonight and bash Hastur’s skull in.
Aziraphale knew for a fact that Crowley had been discorporated on at least two occasions from head injuries. Unfortunately, it appeared that Hastur had significantly more power at his disposal. Instead of going down, the demon just snarled at him, the bleeding dent in his skull doing nothing to slow him.
“I’ll kill you, you stupid angel! I’ll kill you!” Hastur lunged at Aziraphale, wrapped pale corpse’s hands around his throat, and began to squeeze. The black of his eyes, shiny like a beetle’s carapace and full of hate, had webbed beyond the bounds of his orbital sockets, wrapping around his head into the grimy mop of hair.
“Hastur! That isn’t what we agreed,” Michael snapped, the way humans did when a business deal seemed on the verge of falling through.
“Sod the deal!” snarled Hastur. He tightened his grip on Aziraphale’s throat, delighting in the angel’s gasps for air. Hastur pulled him forward only to slam him back against the desk again. “Was it you that gave that snake holy water? It must have been! Creepy little Crawly would never have dared—!” There were maggots now, writhing in a swarm and knitting the demon’s flesh back together in their wake.
Lungs burning, Aziraphale flailed blindly behind himself, scrambling for anything that could help him, anything to get Hastur off of him. His fingers had hardly closed around the stem of his desk lamp before he swung. It was a delicate glass shade, pieced together mosaic-style to shape red and blue flowers, green leaves. He’d picked it up at Portobello Road on a whim several decades back when a lovely woman named Ethel had pointed it out.
It shattered against Hastur’s face, sending shards of glass raining down over the Persian rug. A few jagged pieces had ripped through the demon’s cheek, now black with his blood. He yowled in pain, releasing Aziraphale to rip them back out. The maggots moved faster now to repair the damage, and already he was reaching for the angel again.
Aziraphale bolted, trying to make for the door. He needed to get to Crowley. ‘To warn him? To shelter him?’ Aziraphale didn’t know. All he knew was that he needed Crowley now.
“Stop,” commanded Michael with a Word of Power.
Aziraphale couldn’t move. His hand was on the doorknob, and he couldn’t summon the strength to turn it. This wasn’t like Crowley’s power, which stopped time completely for those who were affected by it. No, Aziraphale was entirely conscious of his feet stuck fast to the ground and his arms frozen mid-motion.
He felt rather like an insect trapped in amber.
“That’s right, little angel. You can’t run,” Hastur spat.
At least he could move his mouth, small mercy that was. He knew Michael would never make such an obvious oversight, so he took it as permission to speak. “Let me go.” His voice barely shook, too used to hiding his true emotions from Heaven’s emissaries to betray him now.
“Aziraphale, you’re the one making this more difficult than it needs to be.” Heels tapped across the floor, methodical, unhurried, until Michael was standing right behind him. “Wings out,” they ordered, tapping him between his shoulder blades.
Aziraphale’s blood ran cold. “No,” he whispered.
Michael made a derisive noise. “I don’t have time for this,” they sighed, reaching into the celestial plane and pulling Aziraphale’s wings into the physical one. They were huge in the cramped dinginess of his shop, filling up the entryway completely. His primaries brushed against the nearest shelves, and the low ceiling put an uncomfortable pressure on his carpal joints.
“Michael, I’ve done nothing to harm you. I just wanted to be left alone,” Aziraphale protested. It wasn’t likely that he’d be able to reason with Michael, not when they were working with Hastur of all demons, but he couldn’t take this silently, whatever it was. “What are you doing?”
“What do you think?” Michael was stroking through his feathers now. He’d have shivered if he’d been capable of it. Grooming was an intimate activity, a vulnerable one. There was only one being in the whole of Creation Aziraphale had ever permitted to tend to his wings, and he was currently pacing the floor of his flat in Mayfair.
“Just get on with it, wank-wings,” Hastur interjected.
Michael’s grip tightened painfully. “Be quiet,” they said, and ripped out a handful of Aziraphale’s coverts without warning.
Aziraphale cried out. He craved to twist out of reach, to flee, but Michael’s will held him in place. They trailed hands down from the coverts to his secondary flight feathers. Tears welled up in Aziraphale’s eyes. “Stop! Michael, please, stop—agh!” A hand tightened in each wing, and more feathers were brutally torn out. Michael’s fingers were wet as they slid over him, and Aziraphale had the nauseating realization that it was from his blood.
There was the brush of a miracle, as antiseptic and clinical as Michael themself.
Aziraphale had no clue what they’d done until they pushed his damaged wings back into the celestial plane, where they continued to throb. Michael now held a white box filled to the brim with gold-soaked feathers. His feathers, his blood. Aziraphale, feeling faint, couldn’t help the small whimper that escaped him.
“Just one more thing. A finishing touch,” Michael murmured. They pried Aziraphale’s hand from the doorknob and worked his ring loose from his pinkie.
“Give that back. It’s mine,” said Aziraphale, voice thick with unshed tears.
“No,” Michael corrected him. “This is the property of Heaven, and so are you, no matter what delusions you may be operating under.” A lid sealed the box shut, like a tomb or a coffin, some vessel for dead things. Silvery white ribbon wrapped around it, and then through the ring as well, tying itself into a perfect little bow. The gold glinted in the dull light.
It looked like… it looked like a gift.
With a snap of their fingers, the box vanished. “How long do you think it will take him to find it on his doorstep?”
“Who?” Aziraphale croaked.
“Crowley, of course,” said Michael with a dismissive wave of their hand, as if Aziraphale’s world hadn’t dropped out from under him.
"No. No, no. You... why?"
Michael ignored him. "The snake said he'd be back tomorrow, didn't he?" they asked Hastur, who grunted in affirmation. "Wonderful. You'll have him by the end of the day, no doubt."
And all at once, Aziraphale truly understood. They were laying a trap for Crowley, and Aziraphale was the intended bait. He began struggling anew, searching for a weak point in Michael’s hold, but their power was absolute.
His efforts didn’t go unnoticed. Michael narrowed their eyes at him. “Oh, you want to protect him, don’t you? You’re pathetic, a traitor to your cause, and a poor excuse for an angel. What could you possibly do to help?”
“Crowley has nothing to do with this,” Aziraphale tried anyway, thinking fast. While Michael was inscrutable as ever, Hastur had let quite a bit slip. The thermos of holy water had something to do with this. Or, more likely, the demon Crowley had killed with holy water: Duke Ligur. “You said it yourself, ahm, Duke Hastur. I was the one that supplied Crowley with holy water. I’m really to blame for Ligur’s death—”
There was a hand bunching up the back of Aziraphale’s coat, yanking him away from the door. At last, Michael’s hold on him had dissipated, but he had no time to appreciate it before a fist was driving into his stomach. He doubled over, gasping, but he found no respite. Hastur grabbed him by the hair and smashed his face into the door. Pain exploded behind his eyes.
“You don’t get to say his name,” Hastur spat into the angel’s ear. “He hadn’t done nothin’ to you, and you killed him!”
“Hastur,” said Michael, voice deceptively soft. “We agreed Aziraphale was mine to deal with.”
“Hmph,” Hastur threw Aziraphale to the ground, kicking him twice in the gut for good measure. Aziraphale grunted at each impact, curling in on himself a little. “I’m going to make him hurt, little angel.” Hastur bared his teeth, a gruesome imitation of a smile. “I’ll make him wish holy water had killed him that day.”
“That’s quite enough with the dramatics,” Michael frowned. With a snap of their fingers, Aziraphale was drawn upright. He groaned. Every part of him hurt. His wings, his head, his stomach, but he couldn’t rest, not while Crowley was in danger. “Come, Aziraphale.”
“Where?” It was the only word he could manage.
“You will be penitent.”
Penitent. Penitent. “No, please,” he clawed at Michael’s arm, trying to break free, but the Archangel would not be moved. A hum began to fill the room, like the conjunction of many spheres, many voices. It was the sound of Heaven, and Aziraphale could barely stand it. “Don’t take me back there, Michael.”
“You will be penitent,” Michael repeated. Their eyes shone with righteous fury, more emotion than Aziraphale could ever remember seeing on the Archangel’s face. “And when you are, it still won’t be enough. You won’t be enough. So, you will be penitent, from now until the true End of Days, when the world will have forgotten you and you will have forgotten yourself.”
There was a shift in space, and the two angels disappeared.
Hastur, suddenly alone, idly considered setting the angel’s shop on fire. It was full of paper, practically begging for it, but not now, not yet, when Crawly remained beyond his grasp.
He’d do it afterwards, to celebrate. Maybe he’d tie the snake up so he could watch it all burn to the ground. Hastur wanted him to feel what he’d felt, wanted him to know that feather-brained idiot of an angel was gone for good, and so was anything else he might’ve given a rat’s arse about.
In a black mood, Hastur swept from the bookshop to find a nice dark corner to lurk in. He lit a cigarette, then held the lighter out for—right. He kept forgetting.
Crawly would get what he had coming to him, but for now, Hastur could be patient.
Footnotes
1. Not Constantinople.↩
2. a few times, but who was counting?↩
3. The Esteemed Reader should note that this was, in fact, a lie.↩
4. He did try, but he failed. Miserably.↩
5. That was to say, about eleven o’clock. Crowley never got up before ten if he could help it, and he felt he deserved a good sulk after tonight, anyway.↩
6. Other than outright rejection, which Aziraphale didn’t deem too likely.↩
7. Aziraphale was perfectly aware that this was a very strange thing to put together, no doubt the product of some slight mania, but it helped him order his thoughts and arguments quite neatly. He probably ought to have burned the evidence, but instead it was tucked securely away in one of his many desk drawers, safe from prying eyes.↩