sauntered_downward | for salutosinedelectat

No. No, not Aziraphale. Crowley sees him, surrounded by all the fire, and he remembers the bookshop, remembers seeing all the fire and knowing he had lost him forever. Knowing it in his soul and how much he grieved in that moment. This was that moment again. All the Hellfire around Aziraphale, him not running, instead choosing to face down Hastur.

"Brave," Hastur says. "But you can't defeat me." He raises up an arm and points it at Aziraphale.

Crowley has no idea what Hastur is about to do, but he has to stop him. There has to be something that he and Aziraphale can do with their limited competence combined. He grabs his crowbar off of the ground and swings it at Hastur's midsection from behind. It clangs, but invokes no reaction from the Duke.

Well, the Duke is pretty much right, all things considered. Being nothing but a Principality, a defected one at that, with no weapon or powerful holy resource to speak of, it's not like Aziraphale has that many tools in his disposal that would allow him to really harm a Duke of Hell.

The fire is beginning to consume the room. The colorful lights are gone, no more music, no more of that cheerful sound of people drinking, chatting and bonding together. Only fire, destruction, and imminent danger.

But still, Aziraphale stands. Not particularly steady or threatening, mind you, but he does stand, spotting Crowley behind Hastur, relieved to see his companion still moving, although that display isn't particularly convincing.

"--Not here! We can't do this here, there's--" He looks at Hastur again, also not really convinced that he can really argue with this creature of evil.

Please, Crowley. You're good with plans. We need a plan. We need to end this, before--

Plans? Plans? Crowley's only thought right now is that he has to keep Aziraphale alive, somehow. His heart is pounding in his chest and fear has replaced everything else in his veins. There is no coming back for Aziraphale if Hastur gets a hold of him. And Hastur will hurt him, Hastur will kill him.

How can Aziraphale hurt Hastur? They don't have any water for him to bless, but there has to be something. Something he can pray for, something he can miracle to their aid.

"Throw something divine at him!" Crowley calls out. "A blessing! Something, anything!"

He swings his crowbar again, but this time Hastur catches it, and throws Crowley back again, into a pile of flames.

"Crowley!" The angel shouts desperately as his companion disappears into the flames, which, logically, he is aware won't really hurt him, but logic is struggling to make itself heard right now.

What can he do? He has no weapons. Any blessings he could cast are severely too weak to deal with such a high cast demon. The building won't survive the flames forever, and this monster won't hesitate to end Crowley's life. Hes seen the rage and utter hatred in those eyes.

"Stop!" As if an order would change things. But if he can get his attention on Aziraphale, maybe Crowley could... Maybe he could be spared. "Please--spare him."

He knows pleading will mean nothing. And he knows Crowley will hate him for it. But, still, he tries.

"Take me."

"You want me to take you?" Hastur says, sounding incredulous. Perhaps the idea of self-sacrifice isn't something Hastur has ever considered. Perhaps the idea of sacrificing oneself for Crowley just sounds absurd.

Crowley, for his part, is trying desperately to get up. He doesn't have anything broken, but the throw has definitely knocked the wind out of him. He hears what Aziraphale offers, and he has to stop him. That stupid angel. Does he really think he can make a deal with a demon? Does he really think Crowley would want him to?

"Oh, very well," Hastur says, and far too easily. He offers out a grimy hand in the angel's direction. "Your life for the traitor's."

"Aziraphale, don't!" Crowley calls out, trying to get to his feet. He needs to---he has to do something---he has to figure it out, and fast.

He hears Crowley's voice, faintly, over the roaring fire and the cracking walls. He hears his name and the protest, but he keeps his eyes on the Duke.

Aziraphale can be many things. He can be naive. He can be a bit backwards at times, he can jump to conclusions, be too impulsive and not think things through. But he's not that stupid. He trusts demons to lie - any, all of them, all but Crowley - and the ease in the response doesn't escape him.

He stands his ground, looking firmly at the Duke. Not like he can ask him to make a promise. He'd be back at square one.

"--his safety." He's fishing, but he tries. "His safety, and the end of all of this."

A lamp falls from the ceiling on the corner of the dance floor, crashing down into flames.

"How do I know you'll keep your word?"

First of all, how dare he.

This is supposed to be what Crowley does. Crowley sacrifices himself to end this, because it's what would save Aziraphale. He's been thinking it since before they were in that awful motel eating cheap sushi and talking about Japan. He's been thinking it, and then here Aziraphale is, trying to make the bargain that was supposed to be Crowley's to offer.

He's too exposed here. He drops to the ground and concentrates. It's been a long time since he's done this, but it's time, now. He becomes long and thin, sliding his body across the floor.

"You don't," Hastur says. "After all. You don't have anything to bargain with except your life. And I was going to take that anyway."

He takes a step forward and his hand shoots out, going around the angel's throat.

Aziraphale, defected or not, is an angel - a principality, in fact. Lower caste angels, made to receiver orders, and created to guide and protect. But there's something he's always done wrong - he always protected the wrong thing. The wrong idea. The wrong person.

He's been wrong a lot. But most times he's been wrong, he'd like to believe it was with the right intentions.

He doesn't have time to react. Before he knows it, the Duke has him by the throat and off his feet, unneeded breath forced out of his lungs. He grips at his arm, eyes wide, finding himself facing a reality he's seen many times, but never quite as clear -

This is it.

He stares at those black, hateful eyes. He digs his nails into the torn fabric of his sleeves and he stares, as Hellfire licks the walls and tears the place asunder. As the colorful lights and loud music are nothing but recent memories, and a place of joy and laughter and community become a scarily accurate example of the very pits of Hell. And he can't see Crowley anymore.

He can't hear him.

And he hopes he ran. He doesn't think he did. But he hopes, for a second, that this could mean something. That he did something. Maybe something right.

It burns.

His eyes turn up to the ceiling. He can't tell if it's the fire or something else, but everything's starting to blur. To go white. But he sees the ceiling, darkened lights reflecting the light of the flames.

He blinks. And he imagines the ceiling collapsing.

Lets hope he has good aim.

Crowley slithers, curling his serpentine body around the flames, towards where Hastur has Aziraphale in his grasp. He's not venomous, but he can be deadly with the right strike. He moves towards Hastur's feet with surprising speed when he hears the crack. He turns his head up to see the ceiling start to fall. The ceiling is falling, aiming right for Hastur and Aziraphale. It can't be a coincidence. No, this is divine intervention, this is Aziraphale's intervention.

And Crowley can't do anything but imagine a demonic miracle of his own. A miracle in which Aziraphale comes out of this, completely unharmed. Like a bubble of safety, wrapped around the angel, keeping him whole, keeping him from injury.

Hastur, meanwhile, lets out a cry of surprise as the ceiling collapses onto him without warning, discorporating him instantly.

Ironic, isn't it?

He hears the ceiling crack, another second or two of the white taking over his vision. He hears Hastur cry out. He feels himself hit the floor, the heat, something falling on him.

Ah, this is strange. Everything goes so quiet. So distant. So...

Ride home. A soft voice in his mind.

Crowley slithers up around Aziraphale, circling him completely in his snake form. There's a beam angled just above the angel, having wedged itself between the bar and the place Crowley smashed into the wall. He thinks, and the beam flies away. Crowley doesn't care if anyone finds him from use of miracles, he's getting Aziraphale out of this. It's also very, very obvious that the angel is far from all right. Crowley doesn't know what Hastur did to the angel while he was holding him, but he imagines it's what he did while he was holding onto Crowley----deadly for a demon if held long enough, but far worse for an angel.

He concentrates, stretches himself, and forms back his own humanoid body. The heat from the Hellfire is still everywhere.

"Aziraphale!" he says, gripping his hand. "Aziraphale, I'm going to get us out of here!"

He hears Crowley's voice. He could smile--is he smiling? He should be, but oh, he sounds so distant.

The angel turns his head, opens his eyes slightly. All he sees is fire, vague shapes, but he hears him.

That's fine.

His eyes close again. But it's fine.

It's tickety-boo.

"Aziraphale? Aziraphale!"

No. No. Panic slides through Crowley's body like a thousand razor blades. He didn't move fast enough. He didn't get him away from Hastur fast enough. It doesn't matter, because right now, all he has to do is concentrate. Concentrate, get them away from here.

He shouldn't teleport them to the safe place, he thinks. He should teleport them some distance away, take a cab or something and get there eventually, because that would be the safest. But bugger that, because he doesn't even know if Aziraphale can stand. He closes his eyes and teleports them to the street in front of the AirBnb, a lovely loft inside of a Buddhist temple. He has the key already, having miracled away the need to find it hidden in a locksafe at a local cafe. They can know the street they're on, but if Crowley has judged correctly, they'll look right over this temple.

The street is dark and impossibly quiet after the loud burning sounds of the bar. It's also cold, sharp and wet against Crowley's skin.

"Aziraphale," he says. "Can you stand? I can carry you."

Where is he? He sees...white. A whole lot of white. And for a moment, he's intensely terrified that everything went awry. That he missed the shot, and discorporated himself along with the Duke, and shot himself right back into the lion's den.

But...nothing happens. No one shows up. No angels, archangels, quartermasters, heads of accounting, H&R. No, it's nothing, stretching out forever.

Oh.

This is...well, it's something.

Aziraphale lies on the ground, not moving or responding, his clothes, covered in soot and ash. His bow tie partially singed from where Hastur's hand touched it.

Thin dark lines peek out from under his collar, on his skin, like a lightning mark.

Crowley gingerly touches Aziraphale's neck, right where the dark lines peek out. Oh, that's not good. Can't be good, definitely can't be good. He has to get Aziraphale help now----except there's no help to go to. No one who could bless him, no church that would take either of them. They have each other, and that is it. And Crowley is positively useless here. All he can do is watch the person who means everything to him lie there, possibly dying.

But if he dies, Hell will pay for it. Hastur won't get away with it.

He unlocks the door to the loft and leans down, carefully moving to lift Aziraphale up, wrapping one of his arms over his shoulder. It's for the best that there isn't anyone around, otherwise it might look a little odd, how easily Crowley can pick the angel up and lift him.

"It's all right, angel," he says. "Getting you inside. I'll get you inside, we'll get...I'll get...I'll take a look at what's happened."

Crowley has healed things before. Injured animals, mostly. Things he's accidentally hit with his car. He never means to hurt them, and it feels wrong just leaving them there to suffer. Little injuries, he's fixed them up. But something like this? That takes a divine miracle.

He walks, but his feet don't actually touch anything. He can't tell if he's pushing off anything or floating. The only sound is himself, there's no walls, no windows, no sky. No time. Nothing at all.

Just Aziraphale, and endless white. Endless nothing, for eternity.

It's fairly disturbing, really.

"Hello?"

Nothing.

"Oh..."

He angel is still unconscious. None of the jostling and moving around gets a response from him.

At least it seems like his coat will be fine after a wash. He'll be happy to know about that. His bowtie, however, might need to be replaced.

And, of course, the thin lines on his skin that barely poke out of his collar. Part of something else, of course, a black mark that concentrates on the center of his chest. Like a burnt mark, splintering through.

Could have been worse.

From where Crowley is sitting, nothing could be worse. He lays Aziraphale down on the couch, still unconscious. The flat they've rented is small, but it has modern touches to it. A little television, a little book collection---things he thought they both could enjoy while hiding out here. A place for a wine collection...nothing Crowley would want if he were going to be alone.

And he can't be alone. There is no way he's going to be here alone.

Aziraphale's coat be damned. He pulls the coat off and swiftly unbuttons his shirt, revealing the burn mark on the angel's chest. He has no way of telling how bad the injury is, but it looks awful. It looks like something demonic has blazed its way through the angel's body. Aziraphale doesn't need to breathe, he doesn't need a heartbeat, but right now Crowley wishes that he'd have both, just so that he'd be able to tell if Aziraphale were still with him. Discorporation would send him to Heaven, and who knows what will happen to him there. An injury like this could mean far worse.

"Angel, stay with me, please," he murmurs.

He puts a hand over the wound and focuses. There has to be something he can do. Some part of him that remembers being an angel, some part of him that remembers how to heal properly, that can help to fix this.

He focuses, pouring himself into healing the injury. And, for the first time in a very long time, he prays. That this works. That Aziraphale can come back from this.

He's not sure what direction to head off in. His voice slightly echoes after he called out, all around, even with nothing to bounce from. It doesn't feel cold, or hot. He feels both too exposed, and cramped in all that nothingness. There's no color, no life, no sound.

He doesn't like it here.

But the angel suddenly turns. He could swear he heard something, something familiar. He couldn't hear the words, but he's sure it was for him. No idea where it came from, no idea where to look.

Then it starts to dim. And he feels himself slowly...drift down. He thinks that's down, anyway, can't quite tell, but he's gaining speed.

He's falling.

He doesn't scream, really. He's just very, very confused.

Aziraphale suddenly sits up with a deep gasp, and all of reality takes a few lazy seconds to come into focus. There's no...white? No-- there's no fire. Hellfire. There's no fire, and no darkened room. No Hastur--

Oh, but there's certainly burning and he grimaces, a hand instinctively curling towards his chest. He looks down at the awful dark splotch on the center of his chest, that splinters out into thin lines down towards his stomach and up to his colar and neck.

What in the world?

Edited 2019-08-21 22:45 (UTC)

"Aziraphale," Crowley says, as the angel suddenly sits up. His eyes are open and he's----he's here. He's alive. Crowley reaches his other hand up to take Aziraphale's, where it meets at the center of his chest.

Did it work? Did the healing help? The black mark across his chest looks the same to Crowley, but Aziraphale is awake, now. How much does he remember? How far did the wound go?

"Angel, what happened?" he asks. "What did he do to you?"

Did it work? Hard to tell. Certainly, Aziraphale doesn't yet realize the demon tried to cure him, as he's much too busy trying to get his mind to meet him there. The new setting, the quiet, the mark, where is his coat, why is his shirt open, and--

"Crowley..." The name comes out with all matter of relief, even if with a bit of confusion and a vaguely dizzy smile. He's here. He's-- he's okay. He's alive, and they seem to be okay.

"He--" It takes him a moment, and he looks down at the mark again. He doesn't quite understand what it is, but it's certainly etched into his physical vessel, and he didn't put it there. And it still burns, somewhere under the skin. Not incapacitating, but very much not a comfortable feeling.

"You discorporated him," Crowley supplies. "Made the ceiling fall on him. Good thing, too, if this is what he was doing to you. Did he say anything? Did he---"

Crowley has to catch Aziraphale up. No, no, he's still too weak and there's too much. Maybe just a sum-up.

"You discorporated him, I brought you here. This the temple, the one I told you about." It doesn't look much like a temple, really. More like a very posh flat.

The angel stares up at Crowley, gears turning in his head grinding away as he gradually gets back to some semblance of reality. He looks around at the room when Crowley mentions it, and takes a couple of more seconds, before looking up at him again.

"Discorporated him." It...worked? It worked. It-- he got rid of the Duke. He-- oh. Oh god, he discorporated a Duke of Hell. Granted that doesn't destroy him, but, what, what did he just do, what--

"--are we safe?" Is it done? Is it--

And, then, the rest of the night comes to him in flashes - Hastur, the fire, the bar, the restaurant, the suspicious person, the temple, the holy water, the van, the creature, the airport, the plane--

And he's suddenly very, very exhausted. Not in a physical manner, mind you; that one just stings like the dickens.

Are they safe?

Crowley looks helplessly at Aziraphale. He's still covered in the ash from the burning bar, still without his sunglasses----vulnerable, and more than a little beaten. He couldn't protect him. All his cleverness, and he couldn't protect Aziraphale from Hastur. If this is what one day on the run is going to be like for them, they might as well cash themselves in before they even begin.

"They didn't follow me here," he says. "I know that, I checked that. This has to be off their radar."

It has to be. Because Aziraphale is still hurt. He still has to heal. They can't keep running like this.

He sees it, in Crowley's eyes. He'd spent the whole evening wishing he could see them, that he could feel less exposed if just by the fair trade of it, and now he sees them, and he sees him.

Sees him covered in ashes. Sees him helpless, worried. Sees him like he saw him that day, before everything was over.

And the best parts of the night finally come to him in pieces. The drinks while in the plane. The conversations that lasted too long and went quiet too early. The lingering touches of hands, and the things left unsaid. The meal, the favor, the drinks. Another touch. A dance. A look. And the kiss.

He sees him, and he sees him here with him, exhausted and beaten.

And he wants to reach out and bring him into his arms. Take him away from all of this. If just for a minute. Just one. They deserve that. Don't they?

--no. No more questions. They do.

When the angel finally moves again, breaks the gaze, it's to close his eyes and take in a long, deep sigh. Which then makes him grimace, as the stinging flares up for a moment.

He grips Crowley's hand, still against his chest, still sat there, a mess. But, just a moment. He just needs a moment, they need a moment, they're here and they're having that damned moment.

Please, just one.

"Thank Heavens." Pardon his french.

Aziraphale's hand is warm against his. He thinks about before, about finally kissing Aziraphale in the bar. How he'd sat across from him all these years wanting that, wanting to tell him anything about how he felt, and then they had it. Just for a moment. It was a good moment, he's not letting anything take it away from him.

He can't lose Aziraphale, not like this. That was too close, and their hand is above this horrific looking injury, and there was a moment there where Crowley wasn't even sure if Aziraphale would get the benefit of discorporation.

"Hastur might think he killed you," he offers. "He might think whatever he did to you, he killed you. You could have a chance to be free of this."

He'd have to leave Crowley. That part goes unsaid. Hastur certainly hasn't lost his bloodlust for the demon. But Aziraphale could stand a chance on his own.

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